


The curious Incident of the haunted Country House

by ThatClumsyGirl



Series: Downton Abbey/Rivers of London [1]
Category: Downton Abbey, Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Diary/Journal, Gen, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Magic, Memories, Post-Canon, Some mentions of violence, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-12-17 00:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 33,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21045068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatClumsyGirl/pseuds/ThatClumsyGirl
Summary: 1929: Just before his scheduled return to India, Inspector Nightingale is sent to the dark corners of Yorkshire to help a family in distress chase away a few ghosts. A simple job, he thought ...





	1. From the diary of Sybbie Branson

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a crazy little experiment I started around Halloween last year. After the Downton movie came out, I had to make a few adjustments ... It isn't finished but I've decided to motivate myself by posting this first chapter. It's almost a bit too obvious to cross these fandoms in this way but it wouldn't leave me alone :)

October 15, 1929

Dear Diary, 

you are just a book, so you won't think I'm mad. And no-one will ever read this because I've thought of the best hiding-place ever. George certainly won't find it and call me a liar.

Today, I saw something so strange. I was playing hide and seek with George in the attics when suddenly an old man stepped right through the wall. He was blueish in colour and I could see the rest of the corridor right through his tummy. It was like looking at a bad old photograph, unclear and blurry. He tipped his hat at me and walked into the wall opposite. Just like that! Like it wasn't even there. Then George came round the corner and I lost the game. But that doesn't matter, does it? I saw a ghost!

October 21, 1929

Dear Diary, 

more strange things are happening. I was looking for the old man's ghost again. I didn't find him, but there was a bright light coming from the crack under a door and I heard a sound, like singing but different. It was so beautiful, I stood there and listened for a while, but then the light turned black and the singing sounded like the needle scratching on a record.

Mrs. Bates came up the stairs. “Miss Sybbie? What ever are you staring at that door for?”, she asked.

I told her I had heard singing but she didn't believe me. “Who would be singing here at this hour? It's one of your games, isn't it?”

I don't know why, but I told her it was all a game and she asked me to go downstairs because Granny had been looking for me.

Come tomorrow, I will go and investigate some more. As for now, Daddy has promised to take me along to the woods and let me climb as many trees as I like (but I mustn't tell Granny and Donk)

October 23, 1929

Dear Diary,

this time, I saw a woman. At least I think it was a woman, she was almost invisible and I only saw her from behind as she was walking along one of the corridors that have only bedrooms and pictures. I ran after her but she got faster. Then Mr. Barrow stepped out of the door to the servants' staircase. I swear, he looked right at the woman and was all startled. Then he saw me and smiled.

“Miss Sybbie, you gave me quite a scare”, he said and he tried to hide it from me but he looked around for the woman. She was gone by then.

“You saw her, didn't you?”, I asked him.

“Saw who? What are you talking about?” He is a bad liar, Mr. Barrow.

“The ghost. The white lady who just ran past”, I said and I was very adamant.

He crouched down to look into my face properly. “Dear girl, are you quite well? Perhaps you've been in the sun too long”

“Mr. Barrow, it's raining”, I said and he realised he hadn't been paying attention to what he said.

“Anyway, shouldn't you be with Miss Williams and learn French or something”, he said and got up.

He was right, of course, but Miss Williams is the most dreamy and easily fooled governess of all times and I'd slipped away while she was reading. But that was the end of it for today.

October 28, 1929

Dear Diary, 

George is the worst! He was with me today when we saw a whole room full of ghosts. They were dressed in uniforms, some women were nurses. The room was dark although it was day and very cold. I was all excited and later when we saw Granny and Donk, I couldn't help telling them about it.

But Donk only laughed. “What marvellous nonsense you're talking, darling. I reckon you've been reading too many fairy tales”

“No, they're real. George, tell him. You saw them, too”, I said, but George answered he had seen nothing and I was making it up.

Later, when we were alone, I got very mad at him. But he said it had been a dream and it was “the cat's bollocks” (one of the stable-boys has taught him how to swear, but I don't think he's doing it right)

I wish my Daddy was here, he would believe me, but he's gone to America with Uncle Henry to buy cars or something. They will only be back right before Christmas. I wonder what presents they will bring? And I wonder if that nice Miss Lucy will visit us?

November 1, 1929

Dear Diary, 

last night, there was a fire! I could see the glow from my bedroom window and when I went upstairs to one of the corridors, I could see it very clearly. It was a big bonfire by the edge of the woods. I swear, I saw people dancing around it and throwing things in, but they vanished suddenly. A bit later, men from the house were running towards it with sand-buckets. I was hoping the firemen would come with their big red engine and their sirens but they never did. The sand didn't help but it started raining just about then and the fire grew smaller pretty quickly. The men came in and I crept back to bed before anyone saw me.

Today, I went to investigate but Miss Williams wouldn't let me get too close to the ashes so I wouldn't get my clothes dirty. It has been raining all day and everything will be gone by now. Except maybe the stones someone had placed around the fire. I wonder what it was all for. Guy Fawkes Night isn't until Tuesday and Miss Williams' Indian festival has nothing to do with fire, only with lights. She has decorated her room all pretty and colourful and yesterday, she made those lovely sweets again, like last year. At the same time, the housemaid May and the kitchenmaid Sarah were making what they call soul-cakes. Me and the boys sat around the table and we got to try everything. I think, this is now my favourite holiday.

November 10, 1929

Dear Diary, 

I have not been sleeping very well. The singing and the lights go on all night – sometimes they are pretty and sometimes they sound angry. One morning, after they sounded angry, we came downstairs and four of the pictures had fallen off the wall. The next morning, after the music had been nice, the roses in the garden were blooming as if it were spring. I am sure these things have something to do with the music and the ghosts but the only person who believes me is Mr. Barrow. I asked him if he could see the ghosts, but he said: “No, but I can feel them. I'm sure they mean no harm, Miss Sybbie”

“But where did they suddenly come from? And how will we make them stop?”, I asked.

“They were always there, I suppose. I've been feeling them for a while now”

This puzzled me but I didn't ask him to explain. “Perhaps they need our help?”

“I don't think so. Just try and ignore them. And don't be afraid”, he said but he looked kind of afraid himself. Grown-ups think I don't notice these things, but I do.

“I'm not afraid”, I said, and I'm not. I just wish they would stop for a while and let me sleep.

He was silent for a bit, then he gave me that strict look of his. “You shouldn't talk to anyone else about this. They might misunderstand”

I'm not sure I know what he means by that, but I promised to stop talking about it.

November 15, 1929

Dear Diary, 

on the last page, I wrote that I wasn't afraid, but I am now. There are loud noises at night and things vanish and turn up in the strangest places. And then, if you look at where the noise comes from, no-one is there! Last night, someone ate half the food in the store cupboard within a few hours. Tio the dog has been hiding in the stables for three days and refuses to come out. And this morning, the housemaid Enid ran around and wouldn't stop screaming! She left the house and when she came back, she was all confused and couldn't remember what had scared her so.

Even Aunt Mary has admitted that she is concerned now, when before last night she had always called the whole thing “shenanigans” (Whatever that is. It sounds Irish, so I'll ask Daddy when he comes back) Donk is still saying that “there is a perfectly reasonable explanation” for all of it, but I saw him writing a very hasty letter and he wouldn't do anything hastily in a normal situation. He even had it sent by express messenger.

Granny is now talking about moving out of the house! Until it is “resolved”, as she says. And Granny Violet refuses to visit until we're back to normal. She's not visiting us often now, anyway, and she always looks so tired. George is scared, too, but he's too proud to admit it and acts like a grown-up. Like that's any good to anyone. I think, the servants are all very nervous, but they're trying to hide it. Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore keep saying how they've seen worse times. The maids are always whispering and shrieking at every shadow. Mr. Barrow seems less afraid than he was before, which is weird, and when I asked him about it, he told me not to worry and that he wouldn't let anything bad happen to me. That helped me a bit, but I still wish my Daddy was here to keep me safe. I miss him very much.


	2. Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos so far, I hope not to disappoint the expectations :)  
This fic turned out different than I anticipated, writing something with an actual plot is hard when you have a bad memory :P  
The Inspector Nightingale in this fic is only 29, so he is not the legend with PTSD we're used to from the RoL-books. The events from the flashbacks in the Body Work comic are frequently referenced, so it might be useful to know it, but not essential. I'm also deeply convinced that Archie was his boyfriend, exhibit A being the last page of that comic.  
Enough for now. Enjoy!

Letter from the Earl of Grantham to the Marquess of Flintshire

Downton Abbey, November 15, 1929

Dear Shrimpie,

I hope this letter finds you well and healthy and in good spirits.

Alas, I have no time to beat around the bush, as I write to you on a matter of some urgency, which I trust you will treat with great discretion. I must prevail on your extensive connections in London: Some very odd things have been going on at Downton in the last two weeks and I do not trust the local police to keep quiet about them. I am not even quite sure if it is a matter for the police or if a man of the church might not be the better choice. You know me well, old chap, you know I am not quick to believe in these supernatural follies, but even I am beginning to doubt. There might be a reasonable explanation behind all of this and there might not be.

If you can think of anyone able and willing to investigate this matter with the necessary scepticism and circumspection, please refer him to me, if only to quieten the family's and the household's minds and dissolve the rumours of a “haunting” at Downton, before they spread.

Very truly yours

Robert

PS: In order to avoid anyone overhearing and causing more unrest, please do not use the telephone to communicate about this.

Letter from the Marquess of Flintshire to the Earl of Grantham

London, Russell Square, November 16, 1929

Robert, my friend,

your letter was put into my hand just as I was about to go and have luncheon with the very people who can help you best. What a coincidence! This institution is called the “Society of the Wise” and works closely with the government.

We have arranged for Inspector Thomas Nightingale to come and deal with whatever is bothering you. He is a very pragmatic fellow whom I met in India a few years ago, where he was working for the Colonial Office. Although he will say a few things that must sound outlandish to you, I assure you, you can trust the young man. He will arrive on the 19th at the latest.

I hope that everything will be put in order and, time permitting, I will visit you shortly.

Shrimpie


	3. Initial report by Inspector Thomas Nightingale

Date: November 19, 1929

Location: Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England

Subject: Poltergeist phenomena

Report # 1

Arrived at the site at around 5 p. m. after a swift drive from London (note to self: must remember to thank Reggie for lending me his excellent motorbike). Was admitted by the butler, a Mr. Barrow. Hereafter, I met the initiator of this investigation, Lord Grantham and his wife. Also present: the couple's eldest daughter, Lady M. Talbot. Also currently resident in the manor: 5 children aged between 1 and 9; numerous servants. Servants of note: Mr. and Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore and Miss Baxter who have worked here for a long time (further information will follow if relevant), Miss Edison, Miss Taylor and Miss Williams, who have only started service here recently; some servants work but do not live in the manor, there are gardeners, estate workers etc. (comprehensive annotated list enclosed). Associates of the family and staff seem to come and go as they please with no regards to security whatsoever. In fact, the back-door appears to be permanently unlocked. Upon remarking this to his Lordship, he replied only: “This is Yorkshire, young man”

The manor house and grounds are extensive, well-kept and old. High levels of indistinguishable residual vestigia throughout the house, as is to be expected. Nothing especially noteworthy. According to Lord Grantham, the phenomena started to get violent about a week ago: loud noises, inexplicable lights, objects moving, people acting “disturbedly”, escalating in two incidents with the housemaid Enid Taylor (1st on Nov 15, described as a “fit of hysterics”, 2nd on Nov 18, a physical attack on fellow housemaid May Edison)

Will observe the phenomena during the night, then interview Miss Taylor tomorrow.

(Thomas Nightingale's inofficial journal)

Quite a place, this Downton Abbey. It reminds me of Casterbrook, at least from the outside. As soon as I turned into the drive, I could tell that there is a strong presence. Back at the Folly, we suspected the incidents could be accumulated vestigia. Considering how old this place is it wouldn't surprise me, but something is off about it. It feels too fresh. There is definitely magic happening here and an unusual sort, too. A part of me already wishes they had sent someone else, someone more versed in rural English magic or even rural England itself. But I couldn't let old Shrimpie Flintshire down when he had got me out of so much trouble in India.

I am not yet sure what to make of his family and their servants. These families usually have so many secrets, it is impossible to investigate anything properly. They seem like decent people, not too grand and relatively open to the idea that something supernatural could be going on here, so there is a chance they might actually answer half of my questions without talking round in circles.

Curiosity about my person is high in the household and a lot of questions about my work were asked. Someone should have taken a photo of his Lordship's face when I told him that the “Society of the Wise” is better known as the “Folly”. Other than that, I tried to be ambiguous. After all, we do not advertise the fact that we deal with magic and I would not want to spark a panic among the country-folk. Inspector Murville was very adamant about that and managed to use expressions about spooking the horses and rocking the boat in one single sentence. Paired off with a big, bold “Don't”. In fact, he slipped the Folly's manual about dealing with the outside world (A Practitioner's Guide to Applied Diplomacy, 475 pages) into my bag while I was not looking during our last briefing. I might actually read it. Or I might just bend the spine a bit and ruffle the pages before I give it back to him.

They have put me in a rather spacious guest bedroom with an enormous four-poster bed, a well-lit desk and a nice view across the gardens. The vestigia are not as strong in here as they were in other parts of the house. They seemed to come in waves when we were walking down the corridor leading here and some of them truly upset me, especially the sensation of deep, cold loneliness – but perhaps I am susceptible to that particular feeling at the moment.

“Is anything wrong, sir?”, asked Mr. Barrow, who was showing me the way and who had noticed my discomfort.

“I'm perfectly fine. Just tired from the journey”, I lied, already applying the diplomacy.

“You'll be relieved to know then, you won't have to sit through a grand Downton dinner on your first evening. Our cook, Mrs. Patmore, will prepare a tray for you, so you can stay in your room and rest”

I found myself surprisingly relieved about that, the thought of many people in one room chatting away idly and having to pretend I belonged, had been making me a little sick. “That is very considerate. Be sure to give her my thanks”

“Certainly, sir. And you are welcome to dine with the family during your stay whenever you wish. Just let me know beforehand”

“I'm afraid I don't have any appropriate evening clothes on me. Never thought I would be dining with the aristocracy. I was fully prepared to dine with the servants” After all, I am not of high birth in any way – my family has always been pretty middle-class – and my position does not make up for that.

“You can, if you wish. And we can also find you some evening clothes to borrow for the upstairs dinners”

It occurred to me then, that they don't really know where to put me, either. There simply is no category labelled “Magical Detective” in their world. But this butler took it in his stride and never let me see any insecurity for a second. Maybe I should be taking lessons from him, not from Murville's books. “We will see. Thank you for your help, Mr. Barrow”, I mumbled rather inelegantly.

“If there is anything else you require, just ring. Good evening, Inspector” He gave me a very assessing look that made me shiver a bit, though I could not say why exactly, and left. He certainly has a few secrets, that one. And he most certainly knows a few, too. I shall put him on top of my list of people to interview.

Over all, I suspect this will be a straight-forward matter and I shall resume my position with the Colonial Office very shortly.

(Account of the events of the following night, recorded the next morning)

All was silent at first and I went to bed early. I awoke from a dreamless sleep (must have been the red wine) just as the clock downstairs was chiming midnight. A cold came over me, I felt like I was being watched and, indeed, a little globe of light was hovering above the bed and when I looked right at it, it flitted away through the crack under the door (note to self: write to the Folly re sentient werelights, spying spells involving _lux_) I hurried out of bed and followed it, around corners, up and down corridors and stairs. It was always just vanishing around the next bend when I caught up, almost like it was playing with me. And then suddenly, with a little _plop_ like a soap-bubble, it went out and left me in the pitch-dark, barefoot and out of breath. I conjured a light of my own and looked around; it was a corridor like any other. Now, my memory is good, but I couldn't tell which part of the house I was currently in, nor where I had come from or which floor I was on.

That was when, from far away, I could hear it – a knocking, whistling and ruckus like a marching band drunk off their heads. It seemed to come from way downstairs, so that was where I went, having spotted the servants' staircase. I followed the noise to the first floor into a corridor lined with more bedroom-doors. Try as I might, I could not quite find the source of it, or the exact centre, it always eluded me, like the waves of the ocean, coming and going. There was, however, a faint signare – it faded before I could identify anything apart from a female presence and the feeling of rain. Something was strangely familiar about it, too. With one last loud bang, the noise stopped and all the lights in the corridor switched on, as if it were a cinema and the show had been laid on for me. During all this, my werelight had been floating above my head undisturbed, which is odd, seeing as a normal ghost would have tried to draw its energy. I watched it closely and let it travel along the corridor while I soaked up the last ripples of magic, trying to read their clues. But nothing.

When I turned to leave, out of nowhere, a little girl appeared in the passageway. She was wearing a nightdress and looking at me with big blue eyes under a ruffled fringe of brown hair. It was a close call, but I did not scream.

“Hello”, I said cautiously. There was still a presence but it was as direction-less as before and I could not tell if it was coming from her or if she was a result of it. The girl said nothing, just kept looking at my silvery werelight. Deciding to field-test the anomalies of these ghosts, I brought the light down within her reach. “Who are you?”, I tried again, but she didn't seem to hear me.

She reached for the light and tried to grasp it, but drew her hand back and looked at me in complete amazement. “You can do magic”, she finally whispered.

Steps approached from the other end of the passage and I extinguished the light. Contrary to my expectations, the little girl stayed where she was. In that moment, it dawned on me that she was not an apparition at all but as real as me, and that I had just blown my cover. I hope I will never be compelled to show this journal to anyone and explain this embarrassing episode.

“Miss Sybil?”, a female voice said and seconds later, a young woman stepped into view, a tall exotic beauty, dark-skinned and green-eyed, with a long braid of black hair. I have spent enough time on the subcontinent to spot Indian ancestry when I see it. “You're not supposed to be wandering off, dear. Not while this affair is still going on” Her accent, though, is pure British. She grasped the girl's hand and only then did she see me. Hastily, she pulled her dressing gown close.

Remembering my manners, I bowed slightly. “Good evening, Miss. I don't believe we've been introduced. I am Inspector Nightingale. Here to help with … the affair, as you call it” I waited for the girl to interrupt and tell the woman what she had just found out about me, but she never said a word.

“Pleased to meet you, Inspector. My name is Helen Williams, governess. And this curious young adventurer is Miss Sybil Branson, his Lordship's granddaughter”

“I see”, I said because I couldn't think of anything cleverer. “I was just looking into the noises coming from this floor” Something that had been bothering me subconsciously then shaped itself into a question. “Why has no-one else been alerted? They can't have slept through it”

“They're too afraid, sir. We've all agreed that it is best if we stay in our rooms during the events. They never happen inside the bedrooms, just the public areas” (note to self: Why?)

“It's over now and we can go to bed”, Miss Sybil said, very convinced, “Once it stops, it doesn't start again until the next night … I think it's tired”

“And so are you, young lady … Inspector, if you'll excuse us. Good night”

“Good night”, I mumbled and watched them walk away. Miss Sybil looked back at me once, curiosity still obvious on her face. I put my finger across my lips and she nodded, but I don't have much hope. By tea-time, the whole household will know about my abilities.

There she is now, pulling her cousin (the future Earl of Grantham) by the arm along the garden-path and I still cannot believe I have been fooled by a nine-year-old. They really should have sent someone else.


	4. Report by Inspector Thomas Nightingale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of an event that happened during war. I did not go into excessively "graphic" detail but it is a very cruel concept, so if you prefer not to read that kind of stuff, better skip the last part of this chapter.

Date: November 20, 1929

Location: Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England

Subject: Poltergeist phenomena

Report # 2

Observed the phenomena just as the family described (noise of unclear origin, lights). Evidence so far points to a hedge-witch – definitely not a practitioner with formal training and most likely not the “house/accumulated energy/vestigia acting on its/their own”, as formerly suggested. Also of note: The ghost/entity did not feed off the energy of my spell. I have since come to the conclusion that it is a) a sub-type of ghost unknown to us with no “appetite” for magic or b) getting enough energy to feed it from some other source. (Note to Inspector Murville: Please let a research assistant look into this and forward me the results. Thanks. PS: Please also send me any material from the library pertaining to unusual uses of the _lux_-spell)

(Transcript of the interview with Miss Enid Taylor, aged 21, housemaid; also present: Mrs. Elsie Carson, more commonly known as Mrs. Hughes, housekeeper)

TN: So, Miss Taylor, how long have you worked in this house?

ET: Since March last year, sir. I worked near York before that, in a vicarage.

TN: You're religious, then?

ET: As much as the next person. I really don't see what that's got to do with anything.

TN: Maybe nothing … You are from the area, yes? Where did you grow up? (Note: She is clearly from Yorkshire but tries to hide her accent)

ET: In Leeds … Why do you ask me all these questions? Shouldn't you be more interested in the things that've happened?

Mrs H: Enid, please just answer the inspector's questions. You have to excuse her, she's not normally like this.

TN: Miss Taylor, the background information is just as important as the events. You might have a clue you're not even aware of. Have you ever read any murder mysteries?

ET: N-no, sir. My father thought them unfit for a girl.

TN: Ah, I see … I am just trying to find out why these _things_ seem to affect you the most. Because, clearly, you are very much affected. You're pale, tired and irritable. And afraid. But don't worry, I'll get to the bottom of this … Why don't you tell me what happened, in your own words. Start with the incident five days ago.

ET: The trouble is, sir, I don't really remember what actually happened. I remember that something forced me to run. It was tugging at my collar like I was a dog on a leash. Then suddenly, it let go and I was outside, without any memory of how I got there … I know it must sound stupid to you and you probably think I'm lying or hiding something.

TN: On the contrary, I believe every word. What do you personally think caused it?

ET: I suspect it was some sort of hypnosis. We, that's May, Sarah, Nancy and some others, went to a travelling show a while back and there was this sort of magician. (Note: Mrs H looked like she had no idea and would like to tell her off properly right now)

TN: And he hypnotised you?

ET: Oh no, sir, not me. But the others – I told them it was dangerous. And I must've caught it somehow and that's why I'm acting like this. There is no other explanation.

TN: Interesting. (Note: Indeed. Very interesting reasoning) And what about the second incident, the day before yesterday? You attacked Miss Edison who, as I understand it, was with you when you presumably got hypnotised.

ET: That's right, sir. And I'm very sorry. I'm just glad she didn't get badly hurt … I remember nothing except that I felt very angry for no reason. And afterwards I was insanely tired.

TN: And before the incident, how did you get along with Miss Edison?

ET: Well. Very well, in fact. (Note: Lie)

TN: Then there's these other things happening in the house. Have you ever noticed anything strange during your time here?

ET: No, sir. But I haven't been here long.

Mrs H: I've worked here for almost 35 years and nothing of the sort has ever happened.

TN: Then perhaps I should be interviewing you … Miss Taylor, you've been a great help so far. If you can think of anything else that might be relevant, please come and find me.

(Miss Taylor leaves the room)

Mrs. H: Really, Inspector. You can't be implying that there's anything sinister at work here. This is a perfectly normal house. And, believe me, these girls won't be going anywhere unsupervised in future.

TN: What do you think it is, then? The noises, the lights, things moving …

Mrs H: Someone sleepwalking, perhaps. And the rest is just hallucinations. Maybe there's something in the water that's making us see things. You know, like lead poisoning. That's what you should be looking into.

TN: So, you don't believe in the supernatural?

Mrs. H: Not in that way. There may be spirits here but why should they suddenly cause all of this? It makes no sense at all.

(End of interview)

(Thomas Nightingale's inofficial journal, cont.)

Now, this Mrs. Hughes is a source of information I'll have to get back to. I'm not one for gossip, mind, but every little detail could help. She told me “off the record” that Miss Taylor and Miss Edison actually did get along well at some point but all of that changed when young Mr. McNeil stepped into their lives in April – a handsome Glaswegian, as red-haired and hazel-eyed as they come, who looks like he could lift one of the maids with each arm and who runs the estate repair-shop and doubles as the family's chauffeur. According to Mrs. Hughes, he couldn't hurt a fly and is one of the kindest people who ever walked the earth. But I get the feeling she has kind of adopted him a little bit, seeing as they are both Scottish. Anyway, both maids are very struck with him and this has caused some bad blood between them. To quote Mrs. Hughes it is “an invitation for disaster” (and there's nothing quite like a Scottish accent for saying that)

Miss Enid Taylor seems like a decent young woman. Clearly, she grew up in an old-fashioned household. I can deduce this not only from the things she says but also the way she dresses (as far as a housemaid's dress leaves room for interpretation) and the way she holds herself, which reminds me of my mother and her contemporaries. The reason for trying to conceal her accent probably lies somewhere in there, too. She is a pretty girl, somehow aristocratic-looking with her long blonde hair, fair skin and big brown eyes – she knows this and is confident about it, but not in an arrogant way. Over all, it is too early in the investigation to rule her out as the force behind all this.

Right now, the only thing I am certain about is that this force is a woman, so all women in the household are “suspects”. It would also be foolish to eliminate anyone who has been here for a long time just because the phenomena are recent. Maybe something changed and it set her off. It will be my initial goal to determine when and how exactly all of this started and what happened in the lives of everyone at that precise point in time. I shall also try and find out what caused that strange feeling of familiarity during the encounter in the corridor last night. Once I have gathered more information, I will try and summon the entity.

In the meantime, that Mr. Barrow has roused my curiosity. He seems to be constantly hovering close to me, only leaving for a while this morning after he'd received a letter he carried to his office like a treasure, and he keeps giving me those looks like he can see into my soul. I really do not want anyone to see inside there at the moment; it is a dark place I would rather go to alone. And now I must stop, before I am overcome with emotion again.

(Account of a conversation later that morning, recorded in the evening)

So much for being overcome with emotion! I was summoned to Mr. Barrow's office (he hid that letter from earlier rather hastily when I came in) some time after my interview with Miss Taylor and Mrs. Hughes and I knew from the look on his face that something was amiss.

“Inspector, can I ask you something?”, he said after we had sat down, “A personal question”

I was intrigued and assented, which naturally now I wish I hadn't.

“Was your brother Charlie Nightingale?”, he asked in a low voice, “I just thought he might have been, from the way you look”

“Um, yes” It hurt just to hear his name and be reminded of our likeness.

“And the other one, he was a Major …”

“You mean Arthur? Did you know them in the war?” I try never to think of them too much, of what was lost on Flanders fields.

“I did, yes. Charlie was a bright young fellow who raised morales wherever he went. Major Nightingale, on the other hand, was the silently strong type whom everyone admired. But I don't have to tell you that, you knew them best … How is the Major these days?”

“Never the same after the war” In fact, Arthur is a shadow of the man he once was, hollow and listless; not even his loving wife and his children can get through to him. Charlie might have been my favourite, but Arthur was always my great hero when I was young.

“And no wonder after what he had to do. I hope you don't think ill of him, Charlie wouldn't want that”, Mr. Barrow said matter-of-factly.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” I was completely puzzled. Charlie died driving a tank across enemy lines, it had nothing to do with Arthur. (Or so I thought. My hand shakes writing these words now that I know the truth)

“Nothing in particular” Mr. Barrow's face betrayed his lie.

“Tell me. I am an agent of the law, you can't lie to me” While that may not be necessarily true, it did the trick.

“You probably know that tanks had a tendency to catch fire when they were hit by a shell. That's what happened to Charlie's tank, too. But … it didn't kill him. He made it out, badly … very badly injured and burned. And that's where the Major found him lying in the mud, screaming … He tried to talk to him, but Charlie wasn't capable of that. And then the Major got up and … and he shot him”

“No, he didn't” It was all I could say.

“I'm sorry, but he did. I was there. And I'll never forget the anguish on your brother Arthur's face when he turned around and saw me approaching … I thought you'd know about this. Forgive me, I shouldn't have mentioned it. It's just, I had to know who you really were”

“It's quite alright. If you'll excuse me, I need some air” I could hardly hear my own voice and I have no idea how I kept it together. The scene he had described played in my head, over and over, and I imagined I could hear Charlie scream and see Arthur standing in the smoke and the gunfire with his pistol raised. My heart felt like it had been ripped apart.

“Inspector, one more thing”, Mr. Barrow said before I could reach the door. “It wasn't murder, you know, it was for Charlie's own good. He would've died regardless, anyone with injuries like that did. Major Nightingale spared him a lot of excruciating pain”

I could only nod and flee through the servants' hall into the courtyard. I really don't want to know what the servants were thinking. And this on top of everything else that occupies my mind.

Now that I have had an afternoon to think about it, it does not change my feelings for my brothers, not at all. Mr. Barrow is right, Arthur did it for Charlie's good and out of completely honourable intentions. And it makes me understand him and his state much better. To imagine what it must have been like not only to lose a younger brother but to be the one who delivered the merciful shot, to make that decision in the chaos of the battlefield … If anything, it makes me respect Arthur even more. I shall visit him before I return to India and see what I can do with my new-found knowledge.


	5. Thomas Barrow's journal

November 20, 1929

That inspector, one of _the_ Nightingales … I feel sorry for him and my asking must have brought up so many memories, much as it did for me, but I just had to know if I was right in assuming that he was one of the brothers. The youngest, if I remember correctly from what Charlie told me. I now wish I had been more sensitive and never told him about what happened between his brothers, it must have changed his whole world and caused him great unhappiness. The war is a chapter we'd all much rather forget and Inspector Nightingale and I have agreed not to speak about it again.

Apart from that, I had another letter from Richard this morning. My heart rejoices every time I so much as see his oddly slanted handwriting and I read every word as if they were a holy revelation. I miss him so much and it doesn't get better. We saw each other four times in the last one and a half years, meeting like spies in hotels in London, York or somewhere in between. And I love him, like he says he loves me. He makes me feel the opposite of what I have felt my whole life; secure, warm, wanted … But I keep asking myself, can this be “it”? When I was younger, I would have said yes without reserve. But now that I'm going on forty, I want something more, something steady, not constantly wondering when and if I am going to see him again. Not all of it goodbyes. Am I asking too much? Should I not be content with what I have, once and for all?

Then there is still the old fear that everything might be over at any moment. I might do something stupid, might put too much hope into this or too much trust into this man whom I still hardly know. And, worse, he hardly knows me. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me, damaged and twisted as I am.

I am now trying to find a way to go to London for a few days. I've almost managed to put it into his Lordship's head that someone needs to supervise the work on the London house turning into a hotel while Mr. Branson is in America. And if he lets me, and if Richard is actually there, we will have a proper talk.

All of the day's events induced me to go for a walk to clear my head before tea where I had another rather strange encounter. A little girl in a blue coat caught my eye in the village, sitting on the steps of the war memorial and I needed a moment to recognise Sybbie. She looked ready to run away when she saw me but stayed put nonetheless.

“What are you doing here? Have you slipped away from Miss Williams again?”, I asked.

She looked down, quite more inhibited than I have ever seen her. But she's been taught always to answer to grown-ups and so she did. “It's weird in the house. I wanted to go away for a bit”

“I understand that, but you can't just go running off without telling anyone” She is quite scared of everything that is going on but too proud to admit it, which is adorable in its own way. “Come on, let's go back home. And once we're there, you should listen to Miss Williams, she knows what's good for you”

She said nothing, just walked next to me, until out of nowhere the Dowager Countess appeared around a corner, adorned in furs and shawls.

“Granny!”, Sybbie exclaimed and ran towards her, stopping dead just in front of her, suddenly shy. But Old Violet opened her arms and let the girl embrace her. I swear, I have never seen the Dowager's face so soft. She just said hello to me, too, looking a bit puzzled as to what we were both doing there.

“Are you coming to Downton with us?”, Sybbie asked.

“Oh, no, my dear. I just went for a little walk. It has worn me out … Barrow, can I prevail on you to take me back to my car?”

I admit I haven't been this surprised in a while. “Certainly, your Ladyship”, I said as I offered her my arm. She leaned on me heavily and was quite breathless when I handed her over to her (irresponsible, in my humble opinion) chauffeur. I am afraid it won't be long now and she will be gone. Sybbie seemed to suspect as much.

“What's wrong with her?”, she asked when we were going back, holding my hand with both of hers and looking up at me with those big blue eyes, “No-one wants to tell me”

“She's very old, you know. And … everyone, when they get old, just becomes very tired. Until one day, they go to sleep forever” I was hoping I had said that gently enough but her eyes filled with tears.

“Do you mean she's going to die?” Sybbie was so heartbroken I couldn't help but kneel down in front of her and hold her close. If there is one thing I cannot take, it is a child crying. I know they do and there is nothing I can do about it, but I can try.

“My dear girl”, I said as I wiped her tears away with my sleeve. People were starting to stare at us then. “I'm sure she'll be with us for a while longer. And whenever you want to visit her, you come find me and I'll make sure you can” That was some consolation to her and we walked back to Downton then, where we were met by a frantic Miss Williams. She is a good woman but she should really learn how to keep an eye on this particular little girl.

“Where have you been?”, she cried, undecided whether to be cross or worried.

“I'm sorry I ran away, Miss Williams”, Sybbie said, all well-behaved young lady again.

“Go upstairs and wash your face while I decide what to do about it”, the governess said, trying to be as strict as is expected of her.

“Don't tick her off, Miss Williams”, I said after the little one was gone, “We met the Dowager Countess in the village” We exchanged a look and I knew she understood. Everyone knows except the children. “And she's afraid of the ghosts, I suppose they all are”

Miss Williams gave me a grave look from her surprisingly green eyes. “Can I rely on you to help me protect them from harm?”

Everyone knows how much I love the children. “Of course you can … Do you think they might come to harm?” It is hard to figure out what she really thinks under her shield of manners and grace, if she believes in the haunting at all.

“I'd rather be safe than sorry”, she said, then looked around as if to check that no-one was listening, “It is a scary thought, that there might be a ghost in the house”

“Well, it hasn't only been haunted since yesterday, I can tell you that”, I said without thinking and she looked at me wide-eyed and afraid. “I only meant that it is an old house and it is to be expected that there is a certain … presence in it. I'm sure that inspector will figure it out”

I took leave of her and went downstairs then, to see how far luncheon had advanced. On the stairs, I found Phyllis in a rather downcast state and I did not have to ask what about. Why can't anything ever go straight?


	6. Report by Inspector Thomas Nightingale

Date: November 22, 1929

Location: Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England

Subject: Poltergeist phenomena

Report # 3

The phenomena continue to occur in the night as described earlier. This morning, the kitchen looked like a whirlwind had gone through it. This prompted me to interview the cook Mrs. Patmore (transcript enclosed) but she gave me nothing of consequence and was very eager to get on with her work and get her workplace back into shape. She seems more annoyed by the whole thing than afraid, the same goes for the aforementioned Mrs. Hughes and his Lordship's valet Mr. Bates. The family upstairs seems more concerned with the recent stock-market crash than with what is going on in their house. I interviewed Lady Mary Talbot (transcript enclosed), along with her maid Mrs. Bates (wife of the above valet) and, in short, they seem convinced that something is going on but believe that someone is playing a trick to make the house appear haunted. They could give no conclusive reasons as to why they think so and have no suspicion about the identity of the presumed trickster.

Still no clues as to why this started now or to any realistic suspects. Vestigia seem to get stronger every day. I presume this is because more energy is released. Apart from shapeless lights, I still have not seen any ghost in a corporeal form, which is odd because the presence is very strong and should result in something visible.

Next steps: Continue the interviews of staff and family, try to find a pattern in the phenomena.

Note to Inspector Murville: Please have someone check the list that came with my first report against the register of criminal records.

(Note, enclosed)

Overheard the following conversation between the butler and Lady Grantham's maid. Not sure if they are referring to our case but I put it in just for the sake of completeness:

Mr. Barrow: “... D'you want me to talk to him?”

Miss Baxter: “That's kind of you, but I rather you wouldn't. Just forget we ever talked about this. I shouldn't have said anything, it'll only get me in trouble”

Mr. Barrow: “Come on, Phyllis. This isn't the middle-ages. No-one is going to die if you break the rules of society”

Miss Baxter: “I just don't want things to get out of hand”

Felt strong vestigia of fear and pain, suffocating.

(Thomas Nightingale's inofficial journal, cont.)

That peculiar conversation between Mr. Barrow and Miss Baxter didn't leave me alone. There is something mysterious about that woman, some sort of underlying guilt. I have asked around and her origins are widely unknown among the other staff. Mrs. Hughes knows something but will not tell me. The only thing that is certain is that Mr. Barrow got Miss Baxter into this house and that they seem to have a close relationship, though I could not tell of what nature. _He_ is very mysterious, too, like he is hiding a big dark secret. Maybe I have been wrong all along and we are dealing with two practitioners who function as a team. Or maybe I am just jumping to conclusions because this house is getting to me. Here my two suspects are now, so I'll have it out with them.

(Later)

How wrong can one man be? I confronted the two of them, right there in the servants' hall, which was not a good idea in retrospect. As soon as I began questioning Miss Baxter, Mr. Barrow pretty much jumped down my throat.

“Now wait just a minute, mister. She doesn't have anything to do with anything”

If there is one thing I don't like, it is someone thinking they can tell me what to believe, so I answered accordingly. “Alright, then what were you two talking about earlier? About getting into trouble and breaking the rules of society”

They looked at each other, apparently having a slightly telepathic conversation. “Boyfriend-problems”, Mr. Barrow said at last.

“Excuse me?” I was not expecting such a straight-forward answer.

“She's waiting for him to propose. Has been waiting for a while, in fact, and he just can't find the courage to actually do it. I've been trying to convince her to take the first step but she's afraid she'll make a fool of herself … It's silly, they really love each other”

“Thomas!”, she groaned and hid her blushing face behind her hands.

“What? Would you prefer to be arrested for … whatever it is?”

“No-one is being arrested”, I tried to soothe them.

“_What_ is going on?”, Mrs. Hughes' angry Scottish voice said behind me.

“Miss Baxter is being arrested!”, one of the maids, Sarah I think, squeaked with glee.

“She's not. No-one is being arrested”, I repeated but the room filled with more people who had heard the wrong parts of the conversation. Mr. Barrow pulled me away by my sleeve then and Miss Baxter on his other side.

“You run along upstairs, I'll sort it out”, he said to her and she vanished up the steps, then he turned to me, “And you're coming with me” He pulled me into his office and all but sat me down on a chair. “Inspector, I would appreciate it if you wouldn't question my staff in public in future”

“I'm sorry” After all, I can accept when I've been wrong. “I'm quite new to this side of the job, to be honest”

“What a surprise”, he said with a smirk and blatantly obvious sarcasm while he poured wine for both of us. “We were on the family's bedroom-gallery when we had that conversation. Whatever were _you_ doing up there?”

I wanted to point out that I am the one who asks the questions but since I need him as a source of information, I did not think it wise to cross him any more. “His Lordship gave me permission to go wherever I please if my work requires it. You see … investigating the paranormal is largely done by feeling things, like the atmosphere of this house, traces of strong emotion. I think, if I can feel my way to the origin of the incidents, I might solve the case” And I managed to explain it without using the words “magic” or “witch”. “I had one of those feelings when I listened to your conversation and I thought it was connected to Miss Baxter. It seems I was wrong”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “So, this is all to do with strong emotions … What room were you standing in front of when you had those emotions?”

I explained it to him as best I could and saw not only recognition but also sorrow on his face. “What does it mean?”, I asked.

“Someone died in that room. The Earl's youngest daughter”

“The mother of that little girl, wasn't she?” That curious little girl who still has not spoken up about my being a “wizard”.

“The same one. She died in childbirth” He looked as if he was going to say something else but needed to gather his courage, so I waited. “And is that what the incidents are? The house remembering? Because that isn't new, I can tell you that”

It occurred to me then that he must be able to feel vestigia in some way. This man might be even more useful than I had thought. “I'm not sure, they're most likely two completely separate things. Have you been feeling them for a long time?”

“Always, in a way. But I only really noticed them about four years ago, after … something happened to me”

I did not ask what that was, I will have it out of him one way or the other. “You see, it's hard for me to tell them apart – the house's memories and the new stuff – because I don't know the history of the place”

“If you're asking for my help, Inspector, just ask”, he said and lit a cigarette.

“Alright. Might I enlist your help with the stories of the house?”

“Gladly” He grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Of all the unexpected things that have happened to me, being recruited as a ghost-hunter must make the top of the list …”

I was relieved in that moment, to find that I can still laugh. The last time I did, I was far away from these shores.


	7. Report by Inspector Thomas Nightingale

Date: November 25, 1929

Location: Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England

Subject: Poltergeist phenomena

Report # 4

Transcript of the interview with Miss May Edison, aged 19, housemaid; also present: Mrs. Hughes

TN: Miss Edison, thank you for finding the time to speak to me. (Note: I have a feeling she has been eluding me, always telling me she is too busy)

ME: You're welcome. Though I've no idea how I could be helpful to you.

TN: Well, you have been the victim of an attack by your co-worker Miss Taylor. I can still see the scratches on your neck and your face … Can you tell me what happened exactly?

ME: I'm sorry, Inspector. All I know is that she attacked me out of the blue when we were tidying up the library. I'm sure she would have strangled me, if the other maids hadn't stepped in … But I don't hold it against her, sir. It seems she is the victim of these strange goings-on.

TN: Is it true you have come in contact with a magician recently? (Note: She seemed taken aback by this question, then remembered)

ME: Oh, that. I'm sure there's nothing in it. Everyone knows those kind of people are frauds.

TN: You're from around here, aren't you? Have you worked here long?

ME: I grew up in Whitby, sir. After my mother died, I moved to London and worked in a hotel. Then, in March last year, I was given the opportunity to get a job here and I took it.

TN: Homesick, were you? I understand that … What can you tell me about the other things happening here?

ME: Nothing, really. Everyone thinks it's a ghost or something.

TN: And do you think that?

ME: Yes, I suppose so. Some people laugh about it, but I'm sure there are ghosts and witches and all the rest of it. I grew up listening to stories about them.

TN: You might have to help me out, then. I don't know any of the local tales.

ME: I'm not sure I could … Can I go now? I really have a lot to do.

(end of interview)

(Thomas Nightingale's inofficial journal, cont.)

I'm afraid Mrs. Hughes scolded me a bit after my interview with Miss Edison because she thought I was flirting with the girl. Of course I was not. While she is pretty in a way, with bright blue eyes, dark wavy hair and freckles that make her look even younger than she is, she is absolutely not my type and even if she were, it would be unprofessional to think about her in that way. It is true I was not as persistent with her as with the others but she has been attacked recently and I thought a gentle approach might be better. And there is something about her, something fragile and vulnerable. I asked Mrs. Hughes what she knew about Miss Edison, but it was not much. Only that the girl is an orphan with a brother and sister living in Sheffield and that a relative of the Crawley-family, Lady Merton, met her in a London hotel and noticed how unhappy she was to be so far away from home and recommended her to Mrs. Hughes. Ever since her arrival here, the housekeeper has tried to make her come out of herself but has not succeeded so far.

Her exact words were these: “I don't think she is any happier here than she was in London … And I'm afraid that poor girl's only friend is the stable-cat”

I had a little poke around the rest of the estate after luncheon (on Reggie's motorbike which I'll have to ship back to London. The weather has got too cold to drive it). Even at this bleak time of year it is a beautiful place with its woods and farms, the big manor house an impressive centre-piece. Luckily, when I ran out of fuel I was near the repair-shop, so I could push the bike until my arms pretty much gave out just short of the door. I met young Mr. McNeil again who assisted me with his muscles and hardly intelligible Glaswegian witticisms. He also gave me a bottle of beer, so his mockery is forgiven, and offered to get the bike back to the house later. We chatted a bit – he really is awfully nice – and of course I asked him about the ghosts and his take on things. He seems to follow the common belief that it is all a trick played on the family by someone from the house, but could not offer further insight since he does not live in the manor. He is one of those people one can only describe as “an open book”: within minutes, we had bonded over growing up with a lot of siblings (he has seven, I have six), he had told me about his childhood in a Glasgow slum and how he had left there at age seventeen after his older brother had been killed in a gang-fight. Apparently then he had spent his years wandering South gradually, working as a mechanic here and there, until he ran into Mr. Branson and Mr. Talbot while he was with a racing-team and they recruited him for the estate, which he describes as “bloody damn good luck”. If all my witnesses were as easily coaxed into talking as this guy, every investigation would be over before it began. But I cannot quite shake the feeling that, underneath his bright smile and his jovial ways, he is hiding something. Then again, isn't everyone?

Apropos of “hiding something”, after Mr. McNeil dropped me off near the house on his way somewhere else, I met Mr. Barrow on his way back from somewhere else.

“Well, you know our footman, Andy Parker, who divides his time between Yew Tree Farm and the house. His wife Daisy, who is also our assistant-cook, has just had a baby a week ago and I went to visit”, he explained and that accounted for the happy look on his face. He adores children, that much I have found out about him. I wonder why he does not have any.

“That's nice. What's the baby called?”, I asked.

“Jane, after his mother, and Beryl, after Mrs. Patmore. Sounds a bit strange together, but there you have it”

“Will your cook be pleased about that?” All I have learned about her so far is that her food is delicious and she would like to whack the ghosts out of the house with a copper pan if she could.

“She might seem a bit cross to you, but she's a kind woman when she wants to be and beside herself with joy when it comes to everything concerning the child. She'll be the little girl's godmother … Isn't it funny how the times just keep moving forward?” He lit a cigarette and looked more thoughtful than I have yet seen him.

“Is it hard to run everything with only one part-time footman?”, I asked.

“You're forgetting young Albert; I've been trying to persuade his Lordship to promote him properly from a hallboy to a footman and pay the poor lad a better wage. And we've got Mr. Molesley who helps out when we need him” He smirked at the mention of that name and I believe it is because he is Miss Baxter's hesitant suitor. (Since our first conversation about that, I have found out that Mr. Barrow and Mrs. Bates have a little wager going on when the two love-birds are going to get their act together – before or after Christmas) “We've got a couple of maids, more than is normal these days. A lot of people seem to send their daughters into service for two or three years after they've finished school to prepare them for their household duties. You know, like Enid Taylor's parents”

I did not know that, but it brought the idea of Miss Taylor being the hedge-witch back to the front of my mind. If she is in service against her will, it might account for the feeling of loneliness that seems to be attached to the whole haunting. If it is her, I wonder where she would have learned magic. Surely not in the vicarage she worked before and probably not from her parents. And her strange fits might mean that she has lost control of the whole thing.

“What have you been up to?”, Mr. Barrow asked, “Stepping on people's toes asking too many questions?”

“I haven't stepped on anyone's toes, have I?” I am absolutely not aware that I might have.

“I suppose Lord Grantham just expected you to swing your magic wand and make this go away”

With restraint that would have done Inspector Murville proud, I stopped myself from saying that we don't actually use wands. “Yes, he does seem a bit … grumpy, if I may say so”

“Of course he is. His house is suddenly haunted, it's threatening the way he sees the world. Any man might be shaken up by that”

I asked him a few more innocent questions about life in the house in general and about the royal visit I have heard about. When he made a strange face at that, I decided to try and get a bit more personal. “Do you like working here?”, I asked.

“I do, kind of, yes. You wouldn't believe what I had to go through to get this position”

That made me curious but I had a feeling Mr. Barrow would find it too pushy if I asked him to elaborate. “That doesn't sound very convincing”, I said instead.

He hesitated, looked at me in a strange sideways manner. “I'll be honest with you. Somehow, this doesn't feel like I'm living the dream. I'm content, yes, but that's it”

“Someone once told me, if you want to know what makes you happy, look back on your childhood dreams” I don't remember who it was. It might have been my uncle Stanley.

“So, what did you want to be when you grow up, Inspector?” There was that cheeky grin again, like he was sharing a joke with himself.

Truthfully, I answered: “Oh, this. Ever since I first read a Sherlock Holmes story, I've wanted to be a detective. And I always wanted to travel, which I do now. And what about you? What was your life's calling?”

He hesitated again and bit his lip, then he overcame his embarrassment and looked at me with the brightest smile. “Polar explorer. Mr. Peary and Mr. Scott remain my heroes to this day”

“How extraordinary”, was all I could say before he burst out laughing and so did I.

We reached the manor then and parted ways. I am beginning to feel less suspicious of him and might ask him to come along on my nightly vigil, even if that produces more talking in the house. Frankly, I do not know why people would take exception or even note of my getting along well with Mr. Barrow, but they do. While it does not bother me, it is still a puzzle I would like to solve, but I can't very well ask anyone what it is all about. With time, along with everything else, I might figure it out.


	8. Thomas Barrow's journal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and the kudos :-* I'm glad people like this so far :)  
I'll be on holiday the next few days but I'll try and post a few more chapters. Posting this one right now instead of packing my suitcase ...

November 26, 1929

What a night! It started slowly enough with Inspector Nightingale and me sitting in the servants' hall playing cards and drinking coffee. He told me a bit about his work for the Colonial Office, which seems to alternate between chasing bad guys, intimidating people into behaving by just being present and writing reports on different “phenomena”, as he calls it. I am still not entirely sure what the Colonial Office needs a ghost-hunter for and why they would send him to India and all sorts. He seems a nice young man in general but there is an air about him like he has come to the wrong place, mixed with something deeply sad, as if he has recently lost someone. When we talked about his brothers I saw a different kind of sorrow, so I presume that he has lost a lover, for completely unscientific reasons. He never sends any letters except his official reports, never makes any phone-calls and seems to look at people and women especially with a certain distance. An attractive man like this one would only be alone if he wanted to be, so I conclude that he keeps the world at arm's length because he has been hurt. There is something about his smile, too, like he is out of practice. When he does, he reminds me of dear Richard, whom I always think of as smiling and who seems to have a hundred different ones, expressing so many different things. I am particularly fond of the cheeky one and the soft one that makes his eyes shine like a sunny day by the sea.

But, I digress. We were sitting there and it was going on midnight; everybody else had gone to bed. We both felt the strange sensation at the same time, an invisible mist creeping along the floor that made you want to pull your feet up onto the chair and hug your knees, like a child trying to hide in plain sight.

“Here we go”, Inspector Nightingale said, almost a bit too gleefully excited for my tastes.

We stayed where we were, pretending we hadn't noticed the change in the atmosphere, practising our poker-faces to tempt the ghost to “up his game”, as the inspector put it. It became impossible to ignore pretty quickly. Like waves of nausea and icy water that came from behind – I could not turn my back to the archway any longer and jumped from my chair, turning around expecting to find a dark figure looming there, but it was empty. A gust of wind scattered our cards and rattled the plates and cups on the rack, followed by a sound that I presume a tornado might make. Swift like a cat, it moved to the kitchen and we followed; we could not actually _see_ anything except the effect it had, making things sway and revolve as it passed them in spiralling circles. All the while, I had that cold familiar feeling of being completely alone in a room full of people and at the same time of being watched. The ghost flitted away out of the kitchen and up the stairs. We followed it at a run into the great hall where it performed the same spinning motion, making all the pictures swing on their hooks. It built up electric tension that actually made our hair stand up, our skin tingle and the lights flicker, producing a sound like the wind blowing down a pipe. Inspector Nightingale and I stood on the ground floor, watching the ghost circle higher along the arches of the bedroom gallery until it reached the vaulted ceiling. The lights snapped out and left us in the pitch-dark.

“I knew it, it's playing with us”, he said from somewhere to my left.

A stroke of lightning shot from the ceiling and I felt like a bell jar had come down around me for a moment. A blaze sprung up in the fireplace, so bright and so hot it seemed to fill the whole room. The flames leapt out like arms trying to catch at whatever comes too close to them.

“Alright, it's not funny anymore”, Inspector Nightingale called in a surprisingly calm voice, while I have to admit that I was terrified and unable to move or even think. He made a strange movement with his hand and water, like someone had emptied a giant bucket from above, came down and extinguished the fire in swirling waves. There was a laugh in the air, I could not hear it but feel it, an eerie giggle running down my spine. Thunder followed and the ghost swished past us, slamming open the double doors. Inspector Nightingale, by the light of what I thought to be a torch, pulled me along outside, following the unseen power by the trail of smell it left behind, like it had scorched the very air in its wake. Another fire started right in front of us on a ridge by the edge of the woods, brightly burning through the mist that lay across the meadow. It lasted just long enough for us to reach it, then it evaporated along with the presence of the ghost. Only the charcoal smell remained.

“Interesting”, Inspector Nightingale said and examined the ashes while I was still busy catching my breath, “There is no wood here, otherwise we would have had a pretty big bonfire”

“Hadn't we better go back to the house, in case the ghost does something else?” I expected this to be some kind of trap to lure him outside so the evil spirit could wreak havoc.

“Oh no, it's quite alright. It's finished for tonight, I can feel it … There has been a fire here recently”

“Yes. Halloween night. We assumed at the time it was the village children who did it” We have never had a Halloween fire here but I know that it is a rural tradition. Though what it signifies was a question I had never asked myself until that moment.

“I don't think so” He picked up one of the stones still in place and after a moment of consideration put it in my hand. It felt heavier than it should. “What do you think?”

Creeping up my arm I felt a hopeful twinge, transition from the old to something new and pure, protection from the dark times ahead. “Was it some kind of ritual? It feels like something old to help people live through winter into spring” It also evoked images of Scotland, weirdly enough, but I didn't tell him that.

“That's exactly what it is. And very old indeed. Its roots lie in the Celtic festival of Samhain. This was done by someone who actually believed in it and not just because a great big fire is so pretty on a dark night. Five people were involved, as represented by the five stones”

“But what does that have to do with the ghost? Unless … it's not a ghost, is it?” It dawned on me then, what I have been kind of suspecting the whole time.

“It might still be a ghost, but someone is controlling it. That someone is a woman and was also involved in this fire-ritual” He did not have to use the word “witchcraft”, I could read it between the lines.

I replaced the stone and we started walking back to the house. “And you've been sent to arrest her?”, I asked, trying to imagine how you would ever keep someone in a prison who can summon ghosts and make them do what she tells them. The answer is, of course, that you cannot.

“I've been sent to find out what exactly is going on. And to stop it, by whatever means necessary” The determination on his face could not quite mask a hint of terror. I expect it is a heavy burden for him to know that he will potentially have to hurt or kill someone.

We reached the front-door and he extinguished his presumed torch which I then could not see anywhere in his hands. The lights in the hall were back on and Lord and Lady Grantham were standing there in their dressing-gowns, looking at the wet mess that had been made of the floor and carpet in the hall and the slightly charred furniture around the fireplace in all its glory.

“What in the name of blazes is going on?”, Lord Grantham said in a voice that would have intimidated many men, but not Inspector Nightingale.

He replied, completely calm: “The ghost tried to set fire to the house, Mylord. Luckily, we were able to keep the damage to a minimum”

A sudden movement on the gallery startled me and I expected another fiery attack from above until I recognized the excited faces of Sybbie and George.

“What is it, Barrow?”, Lady Grantham exclaimed, holding on to her husband's arm.

“Nothing, Mylady … I'll go and get some old sheets or such to soak up the water” I left Inspector Nightingale to have it out with them on his own. After all, it's not nearly my fault. When I returned with an armful of linen, the inspector was alone and had already started to fold up the carpet. We took it down the stairs and hung it up in the yard to drip off after we had spread the sheets on the floor. We remained silent and, above all, I was beginning to feel how tired I was. But there was one question I needed answered before we parted for the night. “History lessons on the house are one thing but why did you ask me to join you tonight?”

He gave me a thoughtful look, like he considered lying. “You have a rare gift, Mr. Barrow. Rarer still, because no-one taught you it … In theory, anyone can learn it, but for most people, it is hard to feel the traces ghosts and the like leave in the world, yet you seem to be able to read them like the newspaper. I needed you alongside me to confirm my own findings”

When I was young, someone telling me I was special would have made my ego grow three sizes. These days, it just makes me feel awkward, exposed and, in this particular instance, relieved because it was the final confirmation that I am indeed _not_ going insane. But him thinking me useful will secure me a place in the front-row of the investigation, so I'll always know what is going on around here. And, after last night, I have a better grasp on what is going on.

The water, the “torch” and that funny feeling of glass between me and the ghost all felt the same and different from the rest. And it was him. He is no ordinary ghost-hunter – if there is such a thing – he is a wizard. Ghosts are one thing, but the actual existence of sorcery – that changes the world and how I see it. But I am not yet sure what it changes it into.


	9. Thomas Nightingale's inofficial journal, cont.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short chapter references quite a few dramatic things that happened in Downton over the years. Warning: Strong emphasis on suicide.
> 
> Sending love to you all from beautiful Vienna :)

November 28, 1929

I am now quite convinced that the hedge-witch, whoever she may be, is responsible for the violent outburst of the phenomena. The ghosts may have always been there but the poltergeist-type occurrences are new and entirely down to her. The question of motive remains – why now, why like this? I have written down my ideas on a large piece of paper and pinned it to the inside of the wardrobe-door; it includes obvious ones like her only figuring out how to use her powers recently or her having only come to the house a short time ago but also obscure ideas like trying to frighten the family out of the house in aid of some property-scheme. Of course there is also the ever-popular one: no reason. I must follow my two strands of investigation: observe the phenomena and try to find their origin and thoroughly interview all the women in the hope that she will slip up and reveal herself. The latest stack of papers from the Folly with the criminal records, albeit surprising, has not helped very much so far.

Thanks to all the exploring of the last few days and continuously exposing myself to the phenomena, I now have a better notion of what to look for in terms of a signare. Of course she does not have a very strong one like a trained practitioner would, but it is singular enough (feeling of rain, foreignness and familiarity at the same time) to distinguish it.

My tours of the house with Mr. Barrow have brought me into contact with so many different vestigia, I am beginning to believe that there is not a square foot in this building that has not seen death, heartbreak or some other tragic event. The corridor of the family's bedrooms alone would serve as a hard path to walk for a practitioner of faint disposition. Apart from the terrifying echo of the youngest daughter's death, there are some pretty sad things attached to the second daughter's room (who, as I have gathered, was always considered the unlucky one before finding her fairy-tale ending) and Lady Grantham's tells of the loss of more than one child. The guest-rooms are not as bad but one of them has traces of a young lady dying and another one of a soldier (who, as Mr. Barrow explained, was a footman before and died here while the house served as a convalescent home during the war) And these things are just the more recent ones. The old stones have layers and layers of memories stuck to them like so much wallpaper, all the way back to the chants of the monks who once prayed here, long before there was an Earldom of Grantham.

The servants' quarters are more of the mixed variety, strong senses of hope and upheaval in various degrees but of course also tragedy. One of the places that struck me were the boot-room, where I was overcome with the urgent feeling of having to defend myself, being overpowered and heard a woman's screams over echoes of music. It made my knees go weak and filled my head with a thousand pricking needles. All I got from Mr. Barrow was a brandy but no explanation. He assured me that no-one had died in there that he knew of, but I explained to him that vestigia had nothing to do with death. It was similar when we got to a bathroom in the attics. Waves of hopelessness, a cast-away wandering the desert, the feeling of a razor slicing my wrist – it made me feel cold on the inside of my bones and I must have doubled over a bit, because Mr. Barrow pulled me away and brought me to a room where he sat me on a chair. It took me a moment to realise that it must be his bedroom. The feeling changed but still lingered.

“What was that? Did someone die in there?”, I asked. It was recent, too, the most recent one we have had so far.

“No”, he answered curtly, suddenly looking changed, as harrowed by the experience as I was.

“Yes, someone committed suicide”, I insisted rather too fervently and blinded by an insensitivity which I now regret, being myself very uneasy about the subject and trying to ignore my own feelings, “And it can't have been too long ago”

He sat on the bed, hunched over, looking at his hands clasped in front of him. “No-one died, so it's not relevant”

“Of course it is, everything could be relevant. And, as I said, death is not always the deciding element. You promised me you'd help me so, for the good of the investigation, I shall need the story” Still, I did not realise. I thought perhaps it had been a friend of his in that bathroom. “Mr. Barrow”, I further insisted, although gently, always having considered a bit of impatience at least half a virtue.

His head snapped up, face pinched into a tense copy of his usual composed expression and his grey eyes full of pain he tried to hide. “It was me, alright? Now can we let it rest – I need to get back to work”

He all but threw me out of his room, waving aside my apologies as unnecessary. He has been a bit colder since that conversation, not only to me but to the servants as well. I hope he appreciates how sorry I am. My heart broke on more than one level if that is not too sentimental a thing for an Englishman to say. To think that this confident, calm butler was desperate enough to try and end his life almost surpasses my powers of imagination. But then, I never would have anticipated anything of the sort with Archie, either. (To be fair, the circumstances were quite peculiar in that case …) How much hopelessness does it take for a human being to do this? How many more people I know are or have been on the verge of it? If we could all talk to each other without inhibition, a lot of lives might be saved – but we cannot, the mere thought of baring my soul to someone else makes me sick and I can only presume that most people feel that way and it is a nature-given reflex to defend oneself by withdrawing and barricading off the heart that may be broken.

The whole unfortunate episode makes me wonder if that is what Mr. Barrow meant when he said that “something happened” to him that gave him the ability to feel vestigia. Certainly, a thing like that could shock a man into a very different outlook on the world, leave his senses shaken and open for negotiation. For the more scientific-minded of practitioners, this man's ordeal would be a welcome object of study, but I shall let it rest like he wants it to and only bring it up to ask his forgiveness.


	10. Thomas Nightingale's inofficial journal, cont.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again. I'm back from holiday and will post more frequently again now and hopefully finish this before Christmas. Thank you for staying with me so far :)

November 30, 1929

I was sitting down with a nice cup of tea and some of the material the Folly has sent up just after luncheon, listening to the rain splatter against the window, when suddenly my brain connected some things like the solutions in a crossword-puzzle. In fact, I still have the note on my desk saying: rain=monsoon, familiar but different=British India. I scribbled it down hastily and looked at it from all angles before I decided that, yes, I had come to the right conclusion and Miss Helen Williams, who has been working here since 1926 and lived in Bombay until she was seven, was the hedge-witch. That would explain everything – why her magic has such a familiar feel for me, her separation from her family accounting for her loneliness, and her considerable powers despite having no formal training. I still could not begin to think of a plausible motive for her doing these things.

I may be a fool, but not a complete fool, and I have learned from the first time I made unwarranted accusations, so I asked her into Mrs. Hughes' sitting-room to interview her. For a moment, I considered banning everyone else from the proceedings – for fear of directly involving innocent people in a magical duel – but Mrs. Hughes was having none of it. She insisted on either herself or one of the ladies of the house being present. That seemed to add to Miss Williams' nervousness more than anything else.

“Am I in trouble, Inspector?”, she said in a small voice.

“Not at all, Miss Williams”, I tried to reassure her, while I subtly made the _impello-forma_ in my mind to move some papers on the desk behind their backs, hoping to elicit a reaction, “I am interviewing all the people in this house, as you may have noticed”

“Yes, of course. I hope you will resolve this soon. The children are getting much too excited about it” I had the distinct feeling that she was not telling me everything, but I have had that with all the people in this house so far.

“Are they frightened?”

“Quite so. But at the same time, they are curious about it, like children usually are, and would like to see everything up close. They think nothing can actually happen to them”

Something that had been bothering me from the start occurred to me then. “When we met, you told me everyone else was too afraid to come out, yet you were there. How did you know nothing was going to happen to you?”

“I didn't” She said it like it was completely obvious.

“But why were you there?”

“Inspector, my first duty is to care for the children. I've been sleeping close to them ever since this whole thing started and when I heard the door of Miss Sybil's bedroom, I just had to go after her”

I am a bit ashamed to admit that I still didn't get it. “So, you weren't afraid?”

She looked tempted to slap her own forehead at my stupidity. “Of course I was afraid. But I couldn't let her see it, lest she should be afraid herself. And whatever is out there, I can't let her just run to it. This little girl … is everything to me, almost as if she were my own. I know it's foolish to become so attached but that's the way it is”

I understood it then and realised my own shortcomings – I don't have children and all six of my siblings are older than me – and while I am protective of the people close to me, it never occurred to me that this composed young woman could see her employers' granddaughter as someone to risk her life for. Unless, of course, she knew she was not risking it.

“What do you think about all the things that are going on?”, I asked as neutrally as I could.

“The ghosts? I pray for them to find their peace and their way back to God” Her answer surprised me a little and she noticed that. “Whatever I may look like, Inspector, I am a Christian. I was raised believing in deliverance and forgiveness”

“Of course you were”, was all I could answer. I am not sure now if I had believed her to be a Hindu, I don't remember if I had ever really thought about it. What surprised me was that among the (as rumour has it) pious country-folk, a woman who grew up in Bombay and in London should be the first to bring up anything religious concerning magical phenomena. This made me doubt my conclusions about her involvement; who would ever think of such an answer so quickly if it were not true?

My musings were interrupted by Mrs. Hughes being alarmed about the stack of papers I had moved precariously close to the edge of the desk. This ended my interview with Miss Williams who looked at her watch and exclaimed that she was late for her lessons. I will keep a close eye on her and try to find out where she is while the phenomena happen. I might even go so far as search her room under a pretence.

Outside in the hallway, I met Mr. Barrow who tried very hard to pretend he had not been eavesdropping. “I'm afraid I kept Miss Williams too long”, I said just because I felt like striking up a conversation with him.

“You're wasting your time on that one”, he mumbled around his cigarette. I followed him into his office.

“And how do you make that out? She seemed rather nervous”

“She's more afraid of Mrs. Hughes than of you. She thinks the tiniest mistake could cost her her job” I am beginning to learn how to read him and when he is making cryptic remarks because he cannot stop himself.

“So, she has made a mistake?”

He looked as if he wanted to try and wind his way out of this but made up his mind. “I wouldn't put it like that … It's completely harmless, Inspector”

“What is it then?” I wish people would leave the classification of harmless and not so harmless to professionals like me.

“This summer, I went to York to visit a friend who was staying there. We took a walk later in the evening and saw May, Enid and Miss Williams. It seemed they had sneaked off to go to a night-club. The girls had persuaded Miss Williams to come with them and so she did to keep an eye on them. She still thinks we should have told Mrs. Hughes about it, but I don't see why. Nothing happened”

“How do you know that?” Fair enough; harmless.

“Because my friend and I followed them in. You should've seen their faces when I suddenly turned up … It was a bit of dancing and fun, I really don't see why they should be punished for that” The gleefully saucy grin suggests a side of him I have not yet seen and actually makes me wish I had been there to watch the scene unfold.

“Quite right. They didn't do anything illegal”

“Oh no. Miss Williams is overreacting. She's so virtuous it's almost painful. That night, she never left my side, like she wanted me to protect her from the bad influence all around her. I didn't mind, she's a good dancer, but I'm not sure I'm the right person to hide behind in that sort of situation”

“I can imagine” He may be a dignified butler, but there is something more to him. Much more. And he seems to have got over my tactlessness of the other day, so I might get to find out what it is, after all. Isn't it strange how some people seem to have so many completely different layers?

Speaking of which, I have also had another conversation with Lady Mary. Like the rest of the family, she is quite elusive and like Miss Williams she is intent on protecting the children. But she is also a business-woman who runs this estate efficiently and like she has never done anything else.

“We are planning on opening the house to the public again on the 15th. Do you think your investigation will be finished by then?” If ever anyone needed an example for a no-nonsense approach …

“It is a bit early to tell, Mylady. Of course I hope so”, I said, “But if I were you, I wouldn't rely on it”

“People would probably queue from here to the station if they knew we had a ghost-hunt in progress in here” It was hard to tell if she was serious or just pulling my leg.

“I hope you don't intend to advertise that. As long as we don't know how dangerous it is, the public should stay well away from here” Why do none of them seem to understand that?

“Come now, Inspector. You cannot seriously think that there is any danger in this. But I will keep quiet about it … Once it is over, we'll have another funny tale to add to our repertoire for the visitors”

I was tempted to tell her the whole truth about magic and everything but I had a feeling she would not believe a word of it. The thought also crossed my mind that she might be the hedge-witch but she remains rather low on my list of suspects. While she would do anything to keep this estate afloat, conjuring up a ghost to entice more interest from visitors seems a little too far-fetched. Also, it puts her family and property in danger and she does not strike me as the kind of person who would do that – in fact, she would probably go to great lengths to avoid it. Still, I shall keep an open mind about the idea.


	11. Thomas Nightingale's inofficial journal, cont.

December 2, 1929

I still do not feel any closer to solving this mystery than I did at the beginning. The phenomena seem to be getting worse and, I can admit it on these pages which no-one is likely to read, they are starting to get to me.

When in London, I thought leaving the Folly for a while might be the cure I needed. Getting away from my friends who still behaved like swashbuckling heroes from an adventure-novel and took nothing seriously and who expected me to do the same – like before, like it never happened – was the single foremost thought on my mind. Whether I went back to India or to the countryside seemed irrelevant, as long as I did not have to pretend I was cheerful. I now wish I had picked India, this house seems to be eating me alive.

Just last night, or rather in the early morning hours of today, while I followed a particularly loud noise down some corridors and along the gallery, like I have done many nights, I descended the stairs and seemed to fall into nothing. A black chasm swallowed me, winding its way into my heart, turning and always turning my insides out, twisting me around myself, a kaleidoscope of everything that ever scared me, focussing on select scenes from my biography. I remembered being a boy, paralysed by the big oak wardrobe in my room and seeing myriad clawlike hands reach out of it at night. I saw myself at Casterbrook, on my first day, feeling small and, oh, what if I am no good at this and disappoint everyone who believes in me? The war was no great adventure to me to be followed in fascination from afar; at night I woke up, hurling myself under the bed hearing airship engines and the hiss of dropping bombs, thinking of all four of my big brothers in the muddy trenches and my oldest sister serving in the field-hospital, right in the middle of the gunfire and the death, not knowing when and if we were ever going to see each other again. I remembered discovering things about myself and guarding them inside, always prepared for the moment when someone would drag all my secrets into the open. And then there was my mother, struggling to breathe and consumed by fever, weakly reaching out to me to help her; but for all the things I could do with my mind, I stood there and could do nothing, not more than anyone else. I saw myself running up the stairs in the Folly, the cold feeling in my every limb increasing with each step, slamming open the door in my haste, an overturned chair, a blue and white tie, silence like the old house has never heard …

It was hours later, hours that I spent staring into the void with my eyes open and my mind filled with all my fears of being helpless and alone, when a concerned female voice brought me back to the present day. When I recognised Miss Baxter, she and the hallboy Albert were already helping me to the sofa in the great hall. The world sharpened, in fact it sharpened a tad too much, and I seemed to be able to see every fibre of the tapestry, every grain in the wooden panelling and the marks on the remaining scorched chair all at once. I must have uttered quite a pitiful groan that alarmed Miss Baxter. “I think he fell down the stairs. We must send for the doctor immediately”, I heard her say and tried to protest but to no avail.

The doctor has seen me and found nothing wrong with me apart from a few bruises and, to quote him, “nothing a day in bed won't fix”. Miss Baxter took that literally and has seen to it that I stay put; I suspect that she has posted a guard in front of my door, because one of the maids comes in at regular intervals to see if I need anything and to make sure I do not run about. Not that I would, my head still hurts too much. Mrs. Hughes personally brought up my breakfast to see how I was, Mr. Barrow has looked in twice and even his Lordship paid me a brief visit. Their concern surprised me and has warmed my heart and softened the effect the night has had on me.

The most extraordinary visitor appeared pretty much out of nowhere. At least, that was what it felt like – in reality I had probably just dozed off for a few minutes. I admit I flinched a little when Miss Sybil swung herself onto the mattress just by the foot of the bed, very much unlike a Well-behaved Young Lady should. She just sat there for a minute, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms and chin resting on them, giving me the strangest look. I have never spoken to her much since that first night. I assume Miss Williams has kept her away from me.

“Are you alright? They said you got hurt”, she said softly, presumably so the maid outside the door would not hear her. She had doubtlessly sneaked in past the young woman.

“I fell down the stairs in the dark and hit my head. But I'll be fine tomorrow” It sounded pretty stupid even to me but what was I going to say to a little girl? The truth being that a magical force attacked me …

“Were you looking for the ghosts?”

I confirmed that I was and decided to take the opportunity and talk about the last time we had met. “Why have you never told anyone that I can do magic?”

Miss Sybil shrugged and sat up a little more. “I figured you didn't want me to. So, it was our secret”

It had probably made her feel more grown-up and like she had one over her cousin George (whom she loves but seems always in competition with, like children are)

“And it was a good thing, too. The others might have been scared or they wouldn't have believed it anyway”, I said.

“My grandfather doesn't believe it. I think he was hoping you would tell him it all wasn't real. But instead, you can do magic … Can anyone learn it?”

“In principle, yes”, I answered although I already knew what the next question would be.

“Could I learn it? Is there a school?”

“I'm sorry, dear. Only boys are allowed at the school”

She pouted for a moment, then turned her head up and gave me a glare she must have picked up from Lady Mary. “That's not very modern. And not very fair”

“No, it's not. And I'm sure you would have done well there … Besides, your family must have plans where to send you to school to when you're a bit older”

“They argue about it” Miss Sybil put her head back on her arms. “Daddy wants me to go away to Leeds and only come home on the weekends, but my grandparents want me to go to a posh school not far from here, so I can stay here always”

“Don't you get a say in it? What do you want?”

“Of course Daddy asked me that, but I just don't know the answer. Going away would be an adventure, even if it is only for the week, but I'm scared I might get homesick”

The night had impressively reminded me of my own fears when I first went to Casterbrook. “I understand that very well … Couldn't you try going away? And if you don't like it you can always go to the other school”

“That's exactly what Mr. Barrow said … Did you have to leave home to go to the magic-school?”

“I did and I was only eleven. But I found it very helpful later in life, to know what it's like to be away from home. It teaches you a lot of things” And that is the truth; I am grateful I got the opportunity to grow up like this and I will forever treasure the memories.

“I think you're probably right. Miss Williams always says how important it is to learn as much about the world as we can. So, if I can't learn magic, I'll learn everything else” She was so determined, not only was it adorable but it also made me regret that girls were excluded from Casterbrook. This one would surely have given many of the boys a run for their money. “Could you make one of those magic lights again, please? It was so pretty”, she said.

I did so and divided it up into several little lights that danced around her like butterflies until she giggled too loudly and the maid came in to tell her off about letting me rest. Miss Sybil promised to be back later with some cards so we can play “the game with the pennies” which her father, Mr. Barrow and Mr. McNeil like so much. It took me a moment to realise she meant poker. Of course they do never really let her play, Mr. Barrow assured me later, but she so wanted to learn. He strictly warned me off playing for big money against McNeil who is so good they were convinced he must be cheating, at the start. That is why they play for pennies although, apparently, Mr. Branson likes to say they do it because he is technically Mr. McNeil's employer and would feel uncomfortable taking money from him. Reputedly, he has no scruples playing Lord Grantham and the upper-class guests for real. I hope I get to meet this Mr. Branson while I am here, his résumé is a curious one and, being the father of that little girl, he must be quite something.

Now, I shall get back to my reading-material. If you ask Inspector Murville for further research, you should be prepared to get a stack of papers the size of the Encyclopedia Britannica for your troubles.


	12. Thomas Barrow's journal

December 3, 1929

It has been another haunted night and I am writing down the experiences I had right after getting up, while they are still fresh in my mind. I hope Inspector Nightingale stayed in bed like he promised; if his night was anything like mine, he cannot have had much of a choice. Around three in the morning, I woke up after I had not been sleeping for very long. The ghost was on its usual form, incessantly noisy somewhere downstairs. But there was something else, in my room, a presence making the air heavy and wet and hard to breathe. I wanted to get up to open the window but the blanket held me down like it was made of lead. It is a nightmare, I told myself, you're really still asleep. A numb tingling sensation spread from my toes right to the point across my chest where the blanket ended, it was impossible to move even a finger. Slowly, all the breath was forced out of my lungs, I tried to struggle against it but that only made me see black stars. Oh, I thought above the alarm bells in my head, I am going to suffocate, buried alive in this coffin of linen, strangled by my own sheets. There was nothing I could do, not run, not fight, not even call for help. The noises grew louder, coming up the stairs or through the floor, until they were everywhere, banging the walls, rattling the very glass in the picture frames, shaking the roof so plaster-dust rained down onto my face and into my wide-open eyes. It is coming down, the whole house, I thought, and I cannot do anything except cry and pray to a God I do not believe in. There was a time in my life when I would have welcomed the world to finally black out, but it has long passed. Instead, I found myself raging silently inside my mind against the helpless feeling and the blotches appearing before my eyes. The door – which I could swear I locked – slammed open and shut and the weight on my chest let up enough for me to take a short gasping breath. A moment later something swift and fierce shot through the room, bowling the oppressing spirit over and smashing the window open. The crisp night-air flooded in and all I could do until the grey morning light broke was lie there, stare into the void and breathe, too afraid still to move, like a child in the dark.

(Later)

I asked among the other servants but if anyone had a similar experience last night, they never admitted it, although they all had heard and seen the roof shake. Enid looked like she might have been through something horrible but she looks like that most of the time these days.

Inspector Nightingale was the first person who answered my question in the affirmative. I knew it before he said it because he was holding an arm oddly across his chest and wearing a scarf which he lifted a bit to show me the marks on his neck that looked like the imprints of fingers.

“My ribs still feel like someone sat on them”, he said.

So did mine, still do, and there are patchy bruises across them. “How did you get it to stop?”, I asked, since I could not explain why the spirit had not finished me off.

“Magic”, was all he said and shrugged.

It occurred to me then, the first reasonable explanation why I am still alive. “Did you send some of that my way while you were at it?”

“Maybe. Frankly, it is a bit hard to remember the things one does while being strangled”

I could not even grin at that. The truth is, I am scared to death of the whole experience and not sure if I will ever be able to sleep again. It all became real last night, physically real. Before that, the ghosts were just noises and lights and the odd unpleasant feeling, knocking the furniture about and causing a bit of mischief. There was that incident with May and Enid but I chalked that up to their being hysteric and overtired. And then there was that time a few nights ago when the inspector fell down the stairs, which could have been the ghosts or just an accident. But now, it has become evident that these spirits can hurt people and I am not sure I can be involved in all of it to quite the same degree as before; it just went from exciting to terrifying. The ghost attacked only the two of us, presumably because we are the ones trying to stop it. Inspector Nightingale may be trained to encounter such dangers, but I am not. I quit being a soldier a long time ago.

“I should get on with my work”, I said, “You know your way about now, you don't need that much of my help” I could not tell him about my fears, not yet.

“No, indeed, I really don't want to take up all of your time. You have to do your job, don't you? I've been wondering how you manage both all the time”, he answered with a curious crooked smile.

Maybe I should have lied in that moment, but I really don't want to lie to him any more than I have to (which is a surprise in itself and probably due to the fact that I like him). “To be honest, his Lordship asked me to keep an eye on you, even if it meant letting some of my duties lapse”

“Why doesn't that surprise me?”, he said more amused than disappointed which took a weight off my mind. “And how much of our adventures have you reported back to him?”

“He doesn't have to know everything, does he? I kept telling him that you were doing your best and that I had nothing to say against you” I just want this whole business to be finished and if that means I have to shield Lord G from the truth about magic to avoid a fuss, so be it.

“Thank you, for keeping my secrets”, the inspector said earnestly. Then he left to do heaven knows what and I actually got some work done for once.

It was not until the afternoon that I saw him again. He was lounging rather comfortably in the armchair in the servants' hall with a cup of tea and one of his stacks of papers but I had no time to talk to him then because one of the people less welcome chose to make an entrance.

“Oh, hello”, the sing-song voice of Miss Denker hit my ears. Seriously, that woman is a pain, I do not know how Old Lady Grantham puts up with her when the very thought of her makes my teeth grit.

“Miss Denker? What are you doing here?”, Mrs. Patmore asked and rolled her eyes in my direction. We all agree that it would make our lives much more peaceful if we could banish the lady's maid from the house but none of us wants to fight it out with her when it is only a question of time now before she leaves. Also, it would be uncivil when, technically, she has done nothing wrong except run her big mouth.

“I just came to check in. To see how you were all doing”, she said and it could not have sounded less sincere or innocent if she had tried.

“Out of the goodness of your heart, did you?”, Mrs. Patmore continued, “You must have a lot of free time on your hands”

Miss Denker pretty much ignored her, as is usual. “Of course you can't be having a lot of visitors from the village these days, it's a miracle the postman still dares come to your door … The haunted house! Everybody is talking about nothing else”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Inspector Nightingale sit up sharply. When he first arrived he had made it clear how important it was to keep this “matter contained”, as he says, and Lord Grantham and I had spoken to the family and the staff respectively and pretty much sworn them to secrecy. Of course it had to come out – where does he think he is? London?

“These are just silly rumours”, I said for good measure, “Only fit for fools to fall for them”

Before she could come up with a retort, Mrs. Hughes came in and gave her the trademark glare. While neither Mrs. Patmore, nor I, nor Mr. Carson in his day managed to instil any sort of respect in the indignant maid, the housekeeper only has to appear in her black dress, keys jingling, to make her stand to attention. “Ah, I thought I heard your voice. Come to cause trouble again?” Mrs. Hughes has given up all attempts at diplomacy over the years.

“I only came to say hello, but I see I have outstayed my welcome. Though you should be glad of every visitor, mark my words” With another one of those annoyingly cheerful greetings, she was out the door.

“How did that happen?”, Inspector Nightingale asked me a few minutes later when we were in my office, almost like it was my fault, “I thought we'd agreed to keep it away from the public”

“You're obviously out of touch with country-life”, I answered, slightly annoyed about being called out on a mistake I had not made, “No-one ever knows how these things get out. Could've been the paper-boy who overheard something or maybe the gardener told it to his wife who told the grocer”

“So, we can't stop it from getting worse?”

I really did not know why he was so upset about it. “Just leave it, ignore it. Rumours come and go, it'll fade”

“Now, I might be out of touch but I know perfectly well what is going to happen next, because your friend was wrong” I interrupted him briefly to make it clear that Miss Denker is not my friend, then I let him carry on. “People will flock to this place hoping to see the ghost, hoping for an adventure. You'll see; it'll start with the villagers strolling across the estate innocently, next people's cars will break down nearby and they'll come in for help. And all the while, we do not know what it is and how to stop it. What if one of them carries it out and it spreads?”

“Really, Inspector. It's not the plague … So, what do we do? Lock ourselves up in here?”

“It hasn't quite come to that. But we must make it clear to everyone how important it is not to go tell the world about it” His tone left no doubt that it would, eventually, come to _that_.

“Alright, I'll try. But I don't think we can stop people from believing this place is haunted, especially since it has always been” And at that point, the second possible explanation why I am still alive presented itself: one of the resident ghosts had rushed in and given the evil spirit a whacking. I don't suppose we will ever know for sure.

Now, it is time I went to bed, although I am dreading it. Being choked by a ghost is an experience I cannot recommend to anyone.


	13. Thomas Nightingale's inofficial journal, cont.

December 6, 1929

The phenomena seem to get more violent by the night. I send minute reports of every “symptom” back to the Folly but of course waiting and watching is not doing anyone any good. Alas, what else can I do without causing more harm? Nothing, according to the letters I get by return from my governor imploring me urgently to be patient. Lord Grantham has let on that he thinks me rather useless but he does not seem to grasp the kind of danger we could all be in. I wish this was one of those straight-forward cases where you can roll up your sleeves and get into a proper magical duel with a nicely predictable practitioner, get your hands dirty, so to speak; I am good at that, I know I am. All of this biding my time goes against my nature, too, not just Lord Grantham's. And it is giving me way too much time to think, about Archie, about my brothers and about the feeling of being lost that I have been having frequently.

On a more optimistic note, I thought I had found a promising lead today. I was walking down a corridor with Mr. Barrow who had, after being fairly distant for a few days, finally found his way back to me and told me how he was afraid of the power of the ghosts and their harming people.

Just as I said: “Don't worry, I shall find a way to send these ghosts back to where they belong”, a child's voice exclaimed “No!” behind us and young Miss Sybil tumbled out from behind a tapestry, wrestling with it along the way, “You can't make them go away. Please, don't!” Mr. Barrow was with her in an instant, shushing and soothing her so gently, almost as if he were her own father.

“Why ever not? They've been upsetting everyone, haven't they?”, I tried to reason with her.

“_One _of them has. The others have been there for ages and haven't hurt a fly”, Mr. Barrow corrected me.

“Exactly” The girl wiped her eyes, scattering the dust more evenly across her face. “They're nice, they're people, they belong here”

“You've figured out who they are, haven't you, my dear?” Mr. Barrow apparently decided to ignore me and just talk to her. It was good, though, so she answered truthfully and I could observe.

Miss Sybil nodded and sniffed. “My mother”, she whispered, “And I think one is George's father. One is attached to you, but he isn't always there. He's a soldier and he's very sad. There is a young lady I think Aunt Mary used to know. There are other soldiers, too. One of them likes to hang around the kitchens and the stables. And some ghosts are much older than anyone who lives here, even older than Granny Violet” She suddenly looked at me, then. “You've brought one with you. A friend. Do you want him to go away?”

There is no pretending I don't know who she means. Archie has been with me all this time, even if he has nothing to do with this place and these people. And, really, I should have known to ask her more about the ghosts; children have a way with these things. “They're not really people, just echoes”, I said.

“I don't care”, the girl answered with such steadfastness I would have elected her for a seat in parliament.

“Can you show us where you saw them?” She looked at me with such scepticism, I felt compelled to add : “I won't hurt them” While we were following her, I asked Mr. Barrow: “So, this is what you and probably Miss Williams have been hiding all the time? You knew the children could see the ghosts …”

“Yes. I can't speak for Miss Williams, but I knew. And I wanted to keep them out of it, if I could. Who would want to involve innocent young children in a police investigation? And also, most people don't believe in ghosts and I didn't want anyone to think the little ones had some sort of mental problems when they are clearly just seeing the world for what it is”

“I do not criticise your motives, Mr. Barrow”, I assured him. While I was a little angry, I could understand why his reasoning must seem completely viable to him.

“And what difference does it make? You told me the _normal_ ghosts of Downton and this new ghost are two separate things anyway” He was still defending himself.

“They are. But studying the old ghosts in relation to the new might give me a few answers”

Miss Sybil pointed out some places I know to be heavily saturated with vestigia and a few new ones like one of the drawing rooms I had never paid attention to that served as a dorm during the war and that she saw filled with soldiers and nurses.

“This is where George saw them dancing”, she said when we descended the stairs and pointed down into the hall.

“Saw who?”, I asked, completely puzzled.

“His parents … Really, we should ask him. He can see them all much more clearly than anyone else”

I had never really spoken with the heir to the Earldom. As it happened, he was in the library with the current Earl, playing chess. From what I gather, George Crawley is a very normal eight-year-old, almost as lively as his cousin Sybil, equally curious but more inclined to follow rules.

“I have to ask you a few questions about the ghosts”, I said after a little smalltalk.

“Absolutely not”, Lord Grantham intervened, “You will leave my grandchildren out of it”

“I am afraid it's too late for that, Mylord. They have witnessed things that I need to hear about for the sake of the investigation”, I answered as calmly as possible. Like Miss Williams and Mr. Barrow, he wants to protect the children; I wish they would see that the best way to protect them is to let them talk to me.

“Since I am the instigator of the whole thing, I believe I have the right to decide about that” He was getting somewhat angry.

“That might have been the case in the old days, Mylord. But now that you have handed this case to my agency, I have to do my duty. I will happily wait while you telephone my Chief Inspector to confirm it” I am no great diplomat but staring down a man holding on to an illusion of power is a skill I do credit myself with. I learned from the best: my mother.

“For heaven's sake, man. They are children. Why do you have to fill their heads with nonsense?”, he made a last attempt.

“I don't and it's not. I know, when you asked for this investigation, you were hoping otherwise but it is all real. So, if you want me out of your house, let me do my job … You may stop me at any point. I just need to know what exactly the young master saw”

With a resigned sigh, Lord Grantham indicated that I should sit on the sofa. All the while Miss Sybil and Mr. Barrow had been standing on the side and watching his Lordship and me like we were a particularly fascinating moving picture. The girl came over now and sat by her cousin opposite me.

“So, Master George”, I began, “Miss Sybil tells me you saw some strange people about in the house?”

The boy looked at Lord Grantham. “Grandpapa says I was dreaming it”

“And maybe he is right. But it would help me a great deal if you just told me about it”

He confirmed everything his cousin had said and described the people in such great detail that I could have picked them out of an identity parade without ever seeing them. As opposed to her, he seemed to have no emotional attachment to the ghosts, not even that of his father – which, I presume, is because he saw him dancing with his mother, who is alive and well and so he knows the ghosts can't be “real” and can never give him anything he misses.

Lord Grantham, in the meantime, had picked out a book from the shelves that has family-trees of the Crawleys with portraits and gave it to the children to look through and see if they recognised anyone, which was a surprisingly methodical approach.

Miss Sybil turned the pages, starting at the back, and stopped with her finger on one picture pretty soon. “That's the old gentleman from the attics, isn't he, George?”

“Yes”, the boy admitted reluctantly.

“That's my great-grandfather, the fourth Earl”, Lord Grantham explained, “Though why they would see him in the attics is a mystery to me” By puzzling together stories and rumours, I might have now found out: it was said at the time and for some time afterwards that his late Lordship had several affairs with maids over the years, one of whom even gave birth to a child.

The present-day Crawley children found a few other familiar faces through the ages but none of them were of much consequence to our current problem. “And have either of you two seen the ghost that has been causing all this trouble?”, I asked at some point.

They looked at each other, communicating without words. “Sort of. But not really”, Miss Sybil finally answered.

“You mean, you don't know what it looks like? If it's a man or a woman?”

“It seems to be both”, Master George tried to explain, “Like it changes very quickly”

“Sometimes it stays a man for a while and then it leaves wet footprints everywhere”, his cousin added.

I made mental note of that because it ties in with my notions of water. “And have you ever spoken to any of them?”

“We tried but they never answer. I think they can hear us, though, and definitely see us”, Master George answered.

“They're afraid of this new ghost. Oh, if only we could talk to them” Miss Sybil said exactly what I was thinking, but I have tried and failed to attract the spirits with magic.

“Alright, that's quite enough of that”, Lord Grantham cut in again and I could see that discussion would be futile this time.

I thanked them all for their help and left them to it. The only thing I really got out of this afternoon was one less secret that is being kept from me. I still have no idea why none of the adults can see any ghosts, old or new.


	14. Report by Inspector Thomas Nightingale

I have to record the events of the afternoon in a more detailed fashion than the report I sent to the Folly.

After coming back from a walk in the woods – where vestigia of the Halloween-fire still linger – Mr. Barrow and I found ourselves ambushed by Miss Sybil who told us excitedly that the ghost had been singing again. Apparently, that was one of the phenomena it started with but it has not done it in a while. She implored us to go to the garden with her where a good part of the vegetable-patches was overgrown with snowdrops, crocus, tulips and other spring flowers. I asked her if she had any idea where the singing had come from but she did not.

“Maybe this means the ghost will be nice again”, she said while she picked a bouquet of the magical flowers for her grandmother.

“I don't think so”, I answered, “And you must still stay away from it, even if it can make pretty flowers” I examined these but there was nothing noteworthy about them, just regular flowers growing at the wrong time of year.

“Yes, Inspector”, she mumbled but I do not believe she will stick to it. Her cousin George does stay in his room at night now, after a stern talking to from his mother, but Miss Sybil still sneaks out sometimes and comes looking for me. I have learned most of the secret passages of the house by now to intercept her and send her back to bed before anything happens. “Last time, the music came from the attics”, she suddenly said when she had finished picking flowers.

“Do you know which room?”, I asked.

“Not exactly, but I can show you”

We followed her through the kitchen, where she gave the bouquet to a maid to be brought to Lady Grantham, to the hall and up the stairs a couple of floors. Before we could reach the attics, something stopped us. It was like running into a padded wall halfway down a corridor, the door leading to the last bit of stairs only a few feet away. Nothing was visible but it was clear to all of us that we could not go any further. We decided to try and go back down and circle back to the servants' staircase from there but another padded wall sprung up at that end. Essentially, we were trapped – me with a civilian and a little girl.

“What is that?”, Mr. Barrow asked, willing his voice to sound calm but I could hear a little tremble. He was probably feeling the same vestigia I was – the familiar rain but mixed with something entirely hostile, prowling around like a cornered animal. Miss Sybil was holding on to his hand, finally as scared as she should be.

“It is the so-called ghost, trying to stop us”, I answered, then addressed the corridor in a louder voice, “I suppose this means we're close to solving the mystery of your origin?”

A door opened somewhere behind us and we all looked at it with bated breath, waiting for some kind of horror to come out. After a few moments, tentatively, a figure appeared.

“What is going on?”, Miss Williams, halfway in the process of doing her hair, asked and looked at us like she had just caught us with our hands in the cookie-jar.

“Stay where you are, Miss. In fact, all of you should go into that room and let me deal with this”

The door she had just stepped out of slammed shut, almost knocking the young woman over. She tried to open it, then I tried, but it seemed sealed shut. We went to the next room and the next but none of the doors would open, not even when I tried with a spell. I could hear someone in one of the rooms trying to get out.

“Let them go, they can do you no harm”, I tried to reason with the ghost, “Just tell me what you want” I could feel it wrap around me, brush my face almost like a lover's touch, then cold fingers tightened on my throat, hard enough to break the shield I had cast in front of my companions.

The ghost manifested itself then, a dark figure akin to a cloud, holding me struggling at arm's length like a wet dog and looming over the others, almost tall enough to scrape its “head” on the ceiling. I found myself paralysed and quite unable to form any kind of thought outside of helplessness. A cold feeling of death filled the corridor, emanating from the entity in black raindrops as it got ready to bear down on them.

“Get away with you!”, Mr. Barrow barked, all bravery and heart. He was holding Miss Sybil behind his back with one hand and brandishing an umbrella like a sword with the other.

The ghost reached out for them and Miss Williams fell to the floor in a faint. This seemed to confuse the entity for it let up its grip over me long enough for me to get a spell in edgeways and hurl it along the hallway where it bounced back from one of the invisible walls holding us there. Another presence rained down from above and flew at it like a furious whirlwind, knocking over lamps and furniture and tumbling both of them along the floor until they vanished. I picked myself up as quickly as I could and ran upstairs but I found nothing except the deserted attic with its many small servants' rooms, completely peaceful and the dust dancing gracefully in the afternoon sunbeams.

Concern for my companions drove me back downstairs and I found that Mr. Barrow, with the help of Mr. McNeil who had heard the commotion and come to look, had carried Miss Williams to her bed and was now holding Miss Sybil in his arms.

“What just happened?”, he asked, barely refraining from yelling at me.

“We almost had it. But then it tried to scare us away”, I answered, still exhilarated from the whole proceedings.

“I am scared”, he said very quietly and there was something vulnerable in his grey eyes that he shut away as soon as the little girl in his arms stirred to look at him.

“Perhaps we should go down”, Mr. McNeil suggested before anyone else could say another word, “More people will have been alerted by now”

“I need to speak to everyone who lives in this house, collectively. Is there a quick and easy way to summon them all?”, I asked.

“Just hit the fire-alarm. On the wall at the end of the hallway. That'll make everyone meet outside the front-door”, Mr. Barrow said.

“I need you all to come outside, too” I left them to deal with Miss Williams who was coming to and proceeded to do what he had suggested. Naturally, there were still traces of the events in the hallway – a taste of copper, like the electric atmosphere before a thunderstorm, a faint pleasant smell and the usual vestigia.

With the alarm ringing in the whole house, I walked downstairs where I was met by Lord and Lady Grantham, both anxious about a fire in their manor. I assured them that there was no fire and I just had to make a speech to the whole household.

“What has happened? I was just on my way upstairs to see what the noises were”, he said.

“We were attacked by the wayward ghost but everyone is fine”

“_We_? Who was with you?”, her Ladyship asked.

As if on cue, Mr. Barrow walked onto the scene, still holding the shaken Miss Sybil by the hand. Mr. McNeil supporting Miss Williams followed them at some distance. The little girl ran to her grandmother immediately and after the first shock, she and his Lordship directed their wrath-filled eyes at me.

“I tried to keep her out of harm's way. And I had the situation under control at all times”, I defended myself immediately though I did not have much hope of succeeding.

“No, really, it's not his fault. And he fought off the ghost”, Miss Sybil continued in my favour before either of them could say anything.

“Are you telling me the ghost or the house or whatever attacked you? All of you?”

“It is true, Mylord”, Mr. Barrow said, having regained his usual calm.

Lady Grantham looked from one of us to the other with wide eyes, then grasped his Lordship's arm to implore: “We need to get out of here. Robert, please”

“And where would we go? We can't very well all move to the Dower House”, he answered, still torn between believing it and giving it power, or not.

“Then some of us can go to London or Brancaster, some can stay with Isobel”, she continued.

“I am afraid that won't be possible, Mylady”, I intercepted, “That is exactly what I want to speak to the household about. I can't let all of my suspects go running off in various directions” I began to walk towards the front-door where I could hear a crowd gathering outside.

I made a speech about how this was a criminal investigation and no-one was to leave the house, nor anyone from the outside world enter it, until the situation was resolved. The servants who do not live in the house were particularly mad about that. I am afraid I laid it on a little thick when I told them, in a rather dramatic manner, that I would know if they disobeyed that rule. Whether it was wise or not, I also did a little magic to transport my point which seemed to put the fear of God into most of them and finally convinced even the hardest sceptics that there are more things between heaven and earth, and so forth … To avoid a full-blown riot, I left communications with the outside-world intact as long as they never mentioned the whole situation. Not being completely naïve, I expect that the whole county will have some news about it before long. I hope to have resolved the situation by then and put faith in the general ignorance of mankind to dismiss all these stories as crazy once the cause has been dealt with.

Now, on to my official report …

Date: December 11, 1929

Location: Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England

Subject: Poltergeist phenomena

Report # 12

Violent phenomena throughout the night and some parts of the day. While there was always an element of predictability before, it is gone now, like the practitioner has lost control of their own spell, which is, of course, impossible. It has all, to use a colloquial term, gone haywire.

During an event in the afternoon, the “ghost” attacked several people, including myself, Lord Grantham's granddaughter, the governess and the butler. There were no injuries and a little amount of property-damage. The governess Miss Williams is off the list of suspects as a consequence of it.

I have advised the family and servants against giving up the house as I still have hopes of resolving the situation very soon.

Next measures: enforce physical quarantine

No requirement of back-up yet, but please remain on stand-by.


	15. Excerpt from Thomas Nightingale's inofficial journal, hidden in a book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continuing love in the comments :)  
This was one of the first chapters I wrote and if the Downton movie hadn't happened in the meantime, it would have turned out quite different XD

December 13, 1929

I shall have to remember to remove these pages from my journal, even though it is highly unlikely that anyone is ever going to read any of it. They have nothing to do with the case and still they describe most peculiar events.

After two days of quarantine and constantly enduring looks that could kill from most inhabitants of Downton, I decided to take another walk in the woods and study those stubbornly lingering vestigia from the Halloween-fire. Mr. Barrow was with me; you could call it a habit by now that we spend time together and I really don't know why I was ever suspicious of him, now that I know his secret. He is reserved – so am I – and can be a bit spiky but the way he protects those he loves tells me all I need to know about him.

“Do you really think this is going to give you any answers? There aren't even ashes now to see where the fire was”, he said as we walked the long way round.

“That's what makes it so interesting. We will still feel traces of it … Also, it is a fine enough day and I needed some air” There was a taste of winter in that air but it was dry still, the whole world shades of grey draped over each other, a sharp wind blowing from the North and rattling the dense trees we walked among.

“It was good of you to exclude Andy from your quarantine”, Mr. Barrow said after a few minutes.

The young footman was the only exception I had made – I had thought about letting the Bates family go home as well but parents and child could easily remain in the house along with the others. “Of course – he's just become a father, I would never want to keep him from his new-born baby. I'm not heartless”

“No. You're not” Mr. Barrow says things like that sometimes in the strangest tone and I still never know what to make of them, whether he is teasing me or not.

A part of me wished then that he was not. I hope the rest of my journal does not make it too obvious how attracted I am to this man. Because if anyone ever found out about it, that would be my career finished, let alone my whole life at stake. The more time I spent in his company, the greater the danger, but still I could not and cannot give it up. He is the first person I actually want close to me, ever since …

We continued down the path, joking about this and that and every word of his made it harder for me not to constantly grin like an idiot. At a crossroads, we stopped.

“You know, when we're alone like this, I really wouldn't mind if you called me Thomas”, he said and that finally made my heart stumble. I shall refer to him by that name in my truly private writings from now on.

“Yes, that would be nice”, I answered rather stupidly, “I would say the same but wouldn't that be weird? Seeing as we share the same first name … Also, all my friends call me by my last name, anyway. If I may … presume that we're friends?” I did not continue to improve my little speech.

“It suits you. Nightingale … And you will always have a friend in me”

I am not now sure what I said next, doubtlessly something embarrassing, because he laughed again and looked at me fondly. All my strength failed me then, I could not keep it in any longer and closed the last distance between us, putting my hands on Thomas' shoulders. He looked only mildly surprised, which I took as a good sign for me to stand on my toes and bring our lips together.

Good heavens, what a kiss! I blush to think of the way his mouth moved against mine; there was nothing at all tentative about it, nor about the way he moved his hand to my cheek, the winter glove an unwanted barrier between us, and tilted my head up a little, his other hand resting in the small of my back. I could not help but grab his coat and pull him closer until I felt his heartbeat against my chest. A part of me wanted to weep from sheer relief, another part felt like my heart might explode and a third sensed something darker and hidden come back to the surface. That is, until he broke away suddenly and turned all of that to a shame I have known too often.

“Wait, stop … I can't” Thomas kept his hand on my cheek but re-established some distance between us. This led me to believe that I wasn't going to receive a slap in the face and a visit from the police.

I stepped away from him, just for good measure. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to … I'm afraid I read too much into some of the things you said and I thought you were … something you're not. I … am sorry”, I stammered.

He looked at me with a soft smile. “It's not that. I am exactly what you think I am. And I like you, truly, I do, and it grieves me to hurt you, but … there's someone else”

That turned my world over a few times before it stood on its feet again. “The man who writes you those letters?”, I asked; I'm not a detective for nothing.

“Yes. Richard. He lives in London … Look, I'm sorry if I've led you on in any way. And I probably shouldn't have kissed you. So, I apologize for that, too”

“No, don't. I'm glad it happened. I mean … It was a good kiss” How awkward am I, actually?

It helped me to see that he was blushing also. “That it was”, he mumbled, then looked straight at me, “There's no shame in it. I hope you know that … You're not a boy anymore, so you've probably had your share of rejection in your life already. Don't let it defeat you” Thomas was so earnest and there was such an urgency in his whole demeanour, I keep wondering what exactly has happened to him.

“I've had rejection. And people threatening to expose me. But there were good times, too, and that makes it all worth it”, I answered truthfully.

“It does. And it's a good thing you didn't have to reach my age to find out about that” The pain on his face merged with something hopeful and glowing and it hit me in that moment that my cause is hopeless. He won't change his mind; that other man fills his heart and leaves no room for me.

This was when it finally started to sink in and my soul felt like a bottomless pit. I locked that feeling away for later and distracted myself by the only means available. “So, it's serious between you and … Richard?”

“Afraid so” There was sympathy in Thomas' eyes and of course he knew exactly what I was thinking. “Or as serious as it can get when he lives in another city, we both have time-consuming jobs and above all else, it has to be a secret”

“I always found the secrecy the hardest part, even harder than him being in London and my being in India. It's not just like having an affair with someone who is married, it is a serious offence that can get you into serious trouble” It was such a relief to finally talk freely about _anything _touching on this subject. But I still felt my usual inhibitions towards actually talking about _anything_.

Thomas smiled like a memory was passing through his head. “Richard busted me out of prison just a few days after we had met”

“Prison? Now I'm intrigued” Of course I have checked everyone's criminal records by now and he was not among the people that had one, so this surprised me.

“I went to a night-club. You know, for people like us. I'd never been to one of these and I had the time of my life. I actually felt safe there, if you can believe it. That is, until the police came and arrested the lot of us. And he got me out”

“Oh, dear … What about the other men who were arrested?” A whole night-club full of them, having their lives and their careers ruined …

“We made sure they got a good lawyer; Richard knows a guy in York. As far as I know, none of them was convicted … That's how I found out he was like me”

“That is one hell of a first date”, I said and he laughed again, “Do you see him often?”

“Not really. We manage to arrange it every few months … I suggested I find a place somewhere in London, but he said I belonged here and that I shouldn't give up my home and my friends, after it took all my life to find them. He's right, I don't want to leave, and it seems the best I can do in terms of employment. And of course he can't give up his job. He's valet to … a very prominent man. Once you have a standing like that, you don't throw it away. Especially when it can get you out of all sorts of trouble you might run into, being a man of our disposition”

This explained pretty much everything about him I have observed so far. “That sounds like quite an impasse”, I said.

“I've been wondering if it wouldn't be the gentlemanly thing to do to release him from his obligation to me and let him find love somewhere else, closer to where he is”

“But that's not what you want?” The question was pointless, the pain in his voice was all the answer I needed.

“No. I just want to be with him. Is that too much to ask? … I suppose the more important question is: How much of a coward am I?”

“You're not a coward. Far from it”

There was that look on his face again that really betrayed some of the trauma he must have experienced in his life. He decided to distract from that by talking about me. “Isn't there someone else on your mind, too? I thought that's why you're so sad and absent all the time”

It impressed me that he had noticed that, after all, he never knew me before. “He died”, was all I could say and I could feel my heart ache and tears choke my throat. I thought I was over it, thought my attraction to Thomas a sure sign of that, but I'm not.

“I'm very sorry”, he said with true compassion. “If you want to talk about it …”

“Maybe I should. To talk without fear is a rare privilege. But I'm really not good at those things … The fact is, I was very happy with Archie. We spent a lot of time together because he also worked for the Folly and we all kind of move in the same circles. We would get away sometimes, just the two of us, drive to the coast and stay somewhere pretending we only had money for one room, so it wouldn't look suspicious” To my own surprise, I managed to smile at the memory. “Then I went to India for a while but we knew we'd be back together soon and then he … he just died”

“It must be very hard when it's so sudden. Just like that, the person you love is gone”

“Yes, it was very sudden. There was an incident with a ghost and he was very affected, so much that he … he killed himself. And I found him. Just hanging there” I only managed to say these things by detaching myself from my feelings, much as I do when I cast a spell. I only let the abyss of black despair consume me when I am alone at night and there can be no-one to see my tears.

Thomas looked at me, torn between memories of his own despair and feeling sorry for me. Lost for words, he took my hands. “I wish I could make it easier for you”, he said at last.

“Just being able to talk about it helps”, I answered and it was true. The dust-sheet I have been living under has lifted a little since I came here and I feel like I can breathe again, at least sometimes. It gives me hope that, with time, I might actually learn to live again.

“I meant what I said. You can always talk to me whenever you need a friend”

I thanked him and, after an emotionally charged moment of silence, suggested we should get on because the cold was starting to seep through my clothes. Without speaking, we walked further along the path that would eventually lead us to the site of the bonfire. It had begun to snow and soon, dusk would fall and turn into one of those long nights. The trees were beginning to clear in front of us and I was imagining I could see the outlines of the house already, when Thomas stopped and turned to look at me. He put his hand on my cheek again and there was that smile I had only seen directed at the children so far. It seems like an expression he does not allow himself to have on a daily basis. We have that in common. Oddly, that is exactly what he proceeded to talk about.

“Can I ask you for something? … That you hold on to that softness and the light in your heart, whatever the world throws at you. Don't lock it away”

“I'll try”, I whispered because I don't like making promises I cannot be sure to keep. Who knows what the future will hold?

“You don't have to show it to everyone, but don't lose it”

I could only nod and he came closer still. For a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me again but instead he wrapped his arms around me. The cold disappeared between us, a blanket of warmth enveloped us, glowing like the candles illuminating a dark winter night. It was almost like a vestigium, unexpected like meeting a long-lost friend and as strong as Christmas punch. How long had I needed this, to feel secure and protected for a few minutes at least and like everything might actually be alright again some day. The biting cold wind hurled icy little snowflakes around us and the skeleton trees creaked in the breeze, but for the first time in so many months another living person was holding me and I finally felt warm and safe.


	16. Letter from Thomas Barrow to Richard Ellis

December 15, 1929

My dearest Richard,

I hope you are well and the quarrel with Mr. Wilson has resolved itself. We at Downton seem to be getting nowhere with our problem. No, to be honest, it is getting worse and I won't be able to come to London the day after tomorrow as we had planned. The inspector has now put us under complete quarantine and I am only able to write to you because I pleaded with him to let me tell you I am not coming. Still, I have half a mind to sneak out and do it anyway. If Phyllis can do it, to finally get her justly earned marriage-proposal, if you can believe it, so can I. (She sends love, by the way) Do not expect me to turn up at your doorstep, but if I do, I hope you will shelter me on the run from Inspector Nightingale.   
He has forbidden us to speak about the events taking place here, but I feel someone from the outside world should hear about it, even if that means I have to go behind his back which I am not entirely comfortable with. You are the only person I would trust with this and I know that you will know what to do with this information, should the need arise. (The agency in question is somewhere on Russell Square)  
When I wrote to you rather casually that Downton was being investigated due to a haunting, that was pretty much the understatement of the year. In fact, you could say we are under siege by an evil witch and everyone has the nagging feeling that there will be real damage done before she is finished with us. The investigation seems stuck at the same point it was at weeks ago. At the moment, the strongest suspect is Enid Taylor, though I could not tell you about the inspector's reasoning for that. Her only dark side, as far as I can tell, is that she likes to go to nightclubs, which you and I can stand witness for, and that she might be a bit of a snob towards some of the other maids, especially May.  
Inspector Nightingale is competent enough, as far as I can be a judge about ghost-hunting, but I can't help feeling that he is losing either control, or patience, or both and will overthrow all his own rules soon. I asked him at some point why he did not “go in guns blazing”, so to speak, and rounded up all the suspects but he said as long as he did not know how powerful the witch was, it would not be wise to risk and spook her. It has only occurred to me now that he is scared. Definitely not as scared as the rest of us, but enough to make him cautious. In some moments, he seems a little unhinged, but that might be the after-effect of a personal tragedy he experienced recently. And also, the ghost is getting to us all, filling the house with a desperate atmosphere that makes you relive every moment of loneliness you ever experienced. I could stand everything else – the noise that is now almost permanent, things being hurled out of nowhere, rooms turned inside out – if it were not for that terrible feeling. It makes missing you so much harder than it already is and it brings the past back so vividly that I almost feel as desperate as I did back then.  
There is still hope that this investigation might be over soon; the inspector is optimistic ever since one of those strange coincidences common in this house occurred yesterday. Mrs. Hughes was looking through the cupboards in the servants' hall. “I thought we'd thrown this out long ago”, she suddenly said and even before she had wiped the dust off the old box, I knew what it was: one of those Ouija boards someone had brought home and then forgotten about.  
Now, I know from personal experience (which I will tell you about one day) that that thing does not work but Inspector Nightingale seemed to have an epiphany of joy and chided himself for not thinking of this. He is intending to use it when “the time is right”.

Once all of this is behind us, I will come and see you; it has been way too long. Your letters always brighten up my day, and sometimes also my night, but they are no adequate substitute for the real thing. I long to see your smile and hold you in my arms.

Forever missing you  
Thomas 


	17. Thomas Nightingale's inofficial journal, cont.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features another case of "non-graphic" violence, which I don't want to give away now. For some reason this is also my favourite chapter :)

December 16, 1929

I am afraid I have let things slide the last few days, both with my writing (official and inofficial) and with the investigation. Even with life in general, if I am being honest with myself. But, alas, what can I write about when there is nothing new to say? I wish for nothing more than a big bang, so I can finish this, report back to London and start my journey to India before Christmas. I do not think I can spend the holidays with my family this year and pretend everything is fine. The thought alone makes me want to curl up in bed for three days and come out once the loneliest days of the year are over. (Note to self: Is this the influence of the witch and her ghost or are these really my thoughts?) I used to love Christmas before my friend Archie left me to fend for myself in this cold world.  
Might this be the solution to the case? Just find out which of my suspects is the lonel – A scream. Must go and find the source.

(Later)

The most horrible thing has happened. I ran in the direction of the scream, soon followed by another one in another voice, and found the whole congregation of servants, plus Miss Williams and Mr. McNeil, gathering by degrees in the attics. The lights were off and everyone was carrying candles or torchlights.  
“Careful, watch your step!”, someone warned me and I felt a cracking under my shoes like walking on frost. It took me a second to realise it was the glass from the light-bulbs, shattered on the floor. I produced a werelight and carried it in front of me like a torch, making them all throw eerie long shadows on the walls.  
“What has happened?”, I asked, expecting a new level of destruction by the phenomena. What I was not expecting was Miss Baxter taking a shaky step towards me, away from Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Barrow who were supporting her.  
“She's dead”, she sobbed and pointed to the door most covered in fragments of shadows, “I heard her scream and … I think she's dead”  
“All of you, stay here”, I commanded and walked towards the door on what I hoped were reassuring steps. Further along the corridor, I spotted May Edison being held up by Mr. McNeil and looking just as distressed as Miss Baxter.  
I could feel the vestigia even before I entered. The rain, the detachment, mixed with something sharp and bitter that made me think of absinthe. Gathering my willpower, I opened the door in question and stepped through. I have seen corpses before and was prepared for the worst, but the way Enid Taylor lay across her bed was almost peaceful if it were not for her blueish-white skin and the trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. As if in shock, her eyes were wide open and her arms were raised like she had held them up at the moment of death and then fallen backwards. Just to be sure, I checked her pulse and breathing but she was gone and turning cold fast in the unheated air of the room.  
“Inspector Nightingale?”, Mr. Barrow said through the half-open door and when I looked up he was standing with his back to the opening, undecided whether to look or not, “Shall I call the doctor?”  
“I'm afraid it's too late for that”, I said only loud enough for him to hear me, “Make sure everyone stays in the corridor and alert me as soon as you see or feel anything suspicious” I could not allow them to scatter and give the ghost more opportunities.   
If this were a normal murder, I would have dusted for fingerprints, but I knew there was no point. Her room was also frequented by other servants so results would be inconclusive at best and this young woman had undeniably been killed by magic. In what way exactly is for the doctor at the Folly to find out. I focussed on the evidence before me: the door had not been locked so everyone could have walked in and spells/phenomena are not held back by locked doors anyway, the rest of the room was undisturbed, the processes in the house are definite so everyone probably knew where Miss Taylor would be at this specific time. The only real clue was her dress, it not being the usual housemaid's outfit but a very pretty yellow thing, and her coat, scarf and hat laid out as if she was just about to go somewhere when the attack happened. Where would she be going at this hour? What was important enough to disregard quarantine and risk some kind of punishment? And the oddest detail about it was that all the seams on the dress had been opened, not ripped open but meticulously picked apart. It must have happened in the attack because she would not have put the garment on in the first place if it had been like this before. What exactly that is supposed to tell me will be the most important question to answer.  
No, the most important question will be: How do I tell her family that their daughter and sister, twenty-one years old and looking brightly into the future, has been killed on my watch? The safety of everyone in this house should have been my utmost priority, yet she lost her life while I was sitting two storeys down and writing about how lonely I felt. By rights, I should have finished this investigation long ago and none of this would have happened, or at least should have realised how dangerous this witch is. Or maybe I should have turned this assignment down in the first place, knowing this kind of police-work is not really my strength and given my current state – these are excuses; I shall not insult Miss Taylor by making excuses. I shall finish this, once and for all, and no-one else is going to get hurt.

I had shepherded everyone downstairs into the servants' hall, joined by the family. Miss Williams was in the kitchen with the children, so they all stayed in my line of sight but far enough away for the little ones not to hear me. I told them what had happened, leaving out the details, letting them panic for a minute until things settled down. Making it clear that I could absolutely not allow anyone to leave the house until this is over was difficult, but I got there in the end, even though it entailed a heated discussion with Lord Grantham in the hallway. I then proceeded to interview my only two sort-of witnesses. Miss Baxter, sitting at the table wrapped up in Mr. Barrow's jacket, was not of much help because she had only then come up when she heard the scream but had seen nothing. Miss Edison, who had been in the adjacent room, was more promising although she had seen and heard nothing of consequence, because she had some background information.  
“She wanted to sneak off, sir”, she said as soon as I had turned to her, “She's done it before, too. I tried to stop her but she didn't listen” It was then that she began to cry; a girl, almost a child, sitting there being overwhelmed by reality. Miss Baxter put an arm around her and made her calm down enough for the next question.  
“Do you know where she was going?”  
“No, sir. She often did things like that when she was bored … But I believe she had a boyfriend”  
I tried to get her to tell me who it was but she refused, looking around the room where all the others were gathered in little groups, drinking tea to calm their nerves. Finally, with some encouragement from Miss Baxter, she agreed to write it down. I have the paper here and the words on it do not surprise me: Lewis McNeil. 


	18. Letter from the Earl of Grantham to the Marquess of Flintshire

December 17, 1929

Dear Shrimpie,

I have had to smuggle this letter out among our cook's orders for food, so I hope it finds its way into your hands, because we are under quarantine and that man Nightingale has seen fit even to cut the telephone lines.  
When at first I was pleased with him, I now believe he is a disciple of the devil himself. Nothing has improved since he came here, on the contrary, it has only become worse. And now a wretched girl is dead and his only solution to the problem is to conduct a séance in the servants' hall. If he were not so dangerous, I would throw him out this instant.  
When I heard about this ghastly idea, I tried to forbid him from doing it but that had no effect whatsoever.  
“I am not asking, Mylord”, he said in such a cool tone it left me speechless, “I am simply telling you because you have a right to know what goes on in your own house”  
He even made us put Tom and Henry off from coming home because the fewer people are in the house, the better, he says. Still he objects to any of us leaving and staying somewhere safe.  
This does not feel like my house anymore; it is divided between a malicious spirit and an eerily calm madman duelling with invisible swords. If there is anyone who has authority over Inspector Nightingale, I implore you to speak to them and send them up here to help us reclaim our own home.  
Cora is against me on this and, for reasons I do not quite grasp, still trusts the inspector. She argues that none of us know what we are up against and so none of us can judge if his methods are right or wrong. But I cannot believe that practically disowning us of our rights of property can be in any way right or even be called a “method”.  
My biggest concern is for the children, especially Sybbie who, on top of everything else, misses her father dreadfully. Even she has now stopped seeing all of this as one big adventure and understood how dangerous it really is. None of them should be confronted with the likes of it at their age.  
I am still extremely grateful for your help with the matter, old friend. And I would not turn to you to complain about it if I had any other choice. You know I can handle myself if it comes to it. But I simply do not know what to do anymore to protect my family.

I remain forever in your debt  
Robert


	19. Report by Inspector Thomas Nightingale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of trying something new, this chapter has a non-emotional transcript of a very emotional scene, which will probably require some reading between the lines ...

Date: December 18, 1929  
Location: Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England  
Subject: Poltergeist phenomena  
Report # 14

Had to allow a breach of quarantine for the undertaker to come in and take the unlucky Miss Taylor on her last journey to Russell Square. Phenomena have calmed down a bit. The entity broke the generator, so there is now no electricity in the house. (Note: I am afraid I told them to charge all the repairs to the Folly)  
Here is an account of the events of this afternoon when I again tried to summon the ghost, or any ghost for that matter, at which I have previously failed:  
Almost all quarantined inhabitants of Downton were gathered in the servants' hall (only Lord Grantham, Lady Mary, the children and Miss Williams were absent). I explained to them that this was now a murder-investigation and the ghosts were like our witnesses. Ideally, the ghost of Miss Taylor herself would come and tell us what killed her. This caused great unrest among them. When my next question was for volunteers,which I just might have phrased too cheerfully, only Mr. Barrow stepped forward. After a few encouraging words from him, Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Bates (under protests from her husband) and Mr. McNeil joined us. I explained to them that the following might cause them emotional distress but that no harm would come to them as long as they remained calm. We lit the candles, sat down with the Ouija board and I fixed a werelight over us, right in the middle of our circle.   
At first, the planchette moved randomly, spelling out fragments of sentences, until it said something very specific. I had Miss Baxter sit with us and write down every word. This is her transcript:

Ghost: L-e-t M-e H-e-l-p  
Inspector: “Please, do. What is your name?”  
Ghost: S-y-b-i-l  
“Good God in Heaven”, someone murmured, Lady Grantham gasped in the background.  
Inspector: “Sybil, the daughter of Lord and Lady Grantham?”  
Ghost: YES  
Inspector: “Have you been responsible for any of the chaos going on around here?”  
Ghost, moving the planchette violently: NO  
Inspector: “Do you know who it was? Any of the other ghosts of the house?”  
Ghost: NO … E-v-i-l S-p-i-r-i-t  
Inspector: “And this evil spirit is new?”  
Ghost: YES  
Inspector: “Do you know where it came from?”  
There was a pause, then the planchette moved again: T-h-e S-e-a  
Inspector, confused: “When I called the spirits before, why didn't you come?”  
Ghost: E-v-i-l T-o-o S-t-r-o-n-g  
Inspector: “But you came now. In fact, I've felt your presence a few times the last days”  
Ghost: M-o-r-e E-n-e-r-g-y N-o-w  
Inspector: “When we were attacked a week ago, it was you who saved us, wasn't it?”  
Ghost: YES … M-u-s-t H-e-l-p S-y-b-b-i-e  
Inspector: “Of course you did. Your daughter is a fine, brave girl.  
Ghost, simultaneously: K-e-e-p H-e-r S-a-f-e  
Inspector: “I will … Is there anything else you can tell us about the evil spirit?”  
Ghost: N-o M-o-r-e C-o-n-t-r-o-l … T-o-o S-t-r-o-n-g F-o-r H-e-r  
Inspector: “I see. Who is she? Do you know?”  
Ghost: NO … Y-o-u-n-g  
Mr. Barrow, very softly: “Mylady, is there anything you want us to say to your husband and daughter?”  
Ghost: I-m p-r-o-u-d o-f t-h-e-m … I l-o-v-e t-h-e-m  
Mr. Barrow: “I'll make sure to tell them”  
Ghost: I l-o-v-e a-l-l o-f y-o-u  
Mrs. Hughes: “Of course you do, dear girl”  
Inspector: “Thank you, Lady Sybil. You have been most helpful”

Everyone present was quite overcome with emotion, as is to be expected. Lady Grantham even excused herself and left the room. We interviewed a few more ghosts until the strength of everyone, myself included, failed. They all said more or less the same (transcripts enclosed) from which I draw the following conclusions: The entity is not of local/natural origin. It is powerful enough to control the other ghosts. It has “leaked” some of its power to them so they can actually break away from that control now for short amounts of time. The hedge-witch is young and cannot control her own powers or the entity any longer.

(Thomas Nightingale's inofficial journal, cont.)

After the emotionally exhausting afternoon – dusk, dawn and midnight are the times when the ghosts are strongest, so it seemed most practical to do it then – I let the household function normally for the rest of the day, so they could all recover from the encounter with the long-deceased young lady and other ghosts. I felt her presence again earlier, close to the room where the children were; now that I know what to look for, I can identify her easily enough.  
Mr. McNeil sought me out to speak to me just before the servants' dinner, which saved me from picking him out to question him about his relationship with Miss Taylor. He just did not act like a man grieving for a lover; he was upset but that was it.  
“My girlfriend?”, he asked incredulously when I confronted him with my information, “Oh no, sir. She was nice and I liked her but there was nothing of that sort going on”  
“What is it you want to tell me, then?”  
He looked slightly ill at ease and kept wringing his hands. “You know that fire on Halloween you keep coming back to …” He stopped but I encouraged him to continue. “I probably should have told you before: I was there with them. Now I'm afraid I might have done something to make all of this worse”  
Joy surged through me for a moment. “Who else was there?”  
“Three women and one man. We were all wearing masks, as we were told in the invitations, so I couldn't tell you who they were”  
And that's how fast joy can die away again. “None of them looked familiar to you? … Was Miss Taylor one of them?” I have not quite given up the notion that she was the hedge-witch and has been killed by her own creature that now leads a live of its own, feeding off residual magic.  
“Might have been. It was dark, but one of them was a blonde”  
“And why did they invite you, particularly? Seeing as you told me you didn't even believe in the ghost and are not spiritually-minded at all. Do you have any idea, it might give me a clue?”  
“Well, I am Scottish, very proudly and blatantly. There is a strong Samhain tradition in Scotland in general, so if you have yourself a Halloween-fire, it's only logical to have a Scotsman as well” It was slightly strange reasoning, seeing as the only traditional and rural thing about him is that his mother hailed from the Isle of Lewis (hence his first-name), but it seems a sound idea to me and he spoke in honesty.  
“I suppose so”, I said, “And don't worry, you did not make anything worse. The fire was simply a ritual and it has nothing to do with these strange events … Is there anything else you might want to tell me?”  
“Nothing helpful, sir”, he said and that only made me more curious, “I hope you find a solution soon. And if you need my help, I will give it gladly. In fact, if you ever feel like you need my help, even after this is over, you can count on it”  
“Likewise”, I said and shook his hand solemnly. I do not know what I have done to deserve such a proclamation of loyalty, especially when I have only spoken to him a few times, and while it should have made me feel better, it only made me feel more unworthy and increased the pressure to finally deliver some kind of result. 


	20. Separate page from Thomas Nightingale's journal, hidden in a book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a bonus-chapter because I just can't help myself … (I am still not sure if it should be included or not, but I'll just go with yes)  
Contains subtle references to suicide. (OMG, that sounds like allergy advice)  
The final two chapters will be uploaded tomorrow if I can tear myself away from the Christmas cooking for long enough :)

I'm not sure if this will be of any help with the case, but I wrote it down properly just on the off-chance.  
It was in the evening after that long and tiring afternoon of ghost-summoning and my interview with Mr. McNeil and even after dinner. All the others had gone and I was just about to finally pack up the board and the candles when Thomas stopped me. “Are you strong enough for one more?”, he asked and looked like a lost little boy for a moment.  
“For you? Always. As long as you're sure you want to put yourself through it” I do not know him well enough to be expecting anything but the person he summoned does not surprise me now that I have thought about it.  
“Let's give it a try”, he said, looking determined.  
We sat down with our fingers on the planchette, a werelight hovering above, and this is what happened:

Thomas: “Are you there, old friend?”  
Ghost: H-e-l-l-o C-o-r-p-o-r-a-l  
Thomas: “Have you been checking up on me?”  
Ghost: YES  
Thomas: “But not all the time, right? When did you first come back to me?”  
Ghost: 1-9-2-5  
Thomas, a painful memory obvious on his face: “I thought so … How are you?”  
Ghost: L-o-n-e-l-y I M-i-s-s Y-o-u  
Thomas: “I miss you, too. Still” (He was overcome with tears at this point)  
Ghost: I-m S-o-r-r-y  
Me, decided to make the most of this: “Can you tell us anything about what is going on here?”  
Ghost: F-o-r-e-i-g-n P-o-w-e-r-s  
Me: “So, it's not the resident ghosts who are doing it. But it has made you more powerful?”  
Ghost: YES  
Thomas: “Does this mean you'll go away once we get rid of this foreign ghost?”  
Ghost: D-o-n-t K-n-o-w … Y-o-u W-a-n-t M-e T-o-?  
Thomas: “I want you to find peace. You deserve it. Don't you want that?”  
Ghost: YES … I-m T-i-r-e-d  
Thomas: “Then rest, for now. I'll come and talk to you again” (We tried to let go of the planchette but our fingers seemed stuck to it. I extinguished my werelight to cut the ghost's powers but it didn't help)  
Ghost: B-e H-a-p-p-y P-r-o-m-i-s-e M-e  
Thomas: “Do you mean with Richard? … He's a good man, isn't he?”  
Ghost: F-o-l-l-o-w Y-o-u-r H- (His powers faded and we could let go)  
“I promise you, Edward”, Thomas whispered and fell back against his chair, tears still flowing freely. This is what it does to you to communicate with the other side.  
“So, that was the soldier-ghost who is attached to you?”, I asked when I had found my voice again. I could feel all the emotional turmoil going on between the man sitting next to me and the spirit who had just reached across the void. “He was … more than a friend to you, wasn't he?”  
“You could say that” Thomas wiped his eyes and tried to regain some control. “I only knew him for a week, so we never got to the point where we could find out”  
I really wished I could hold him like he had held me in the woods the other day but of course that was quite impossible. “They do say it's better to have loved and lost”, I offered rather feebly.  
Thomas choked out a laugh through his tears. “Perhaps it is”, he said, “I thought I was over him, but it appears I'm not”  
“Life moved differently in those times … And I suppose you can be over someone without losing all your feelings you ever had for that person” Like perhaps I will be at some point with Archie. But I will never try to talk to his ghost, since that would only fully re-open the wound, as I have just witnessed rather impressively.  
“I suppose you can”, Thomas said and his smile slowly came back, “Do you want some wine? I decanted way too much for tonight's dinner and it would be a shame to let it go to waste”


	21. Thomas Barrow's journal

December 20, 1929

The events of today have been so strange, I have to put down an account of them. I am still not sure what I remember of the whole thing and what I don't, but I will record it to the best of my knowledge and memory.  
It was about ten in the morning when Nightingale and I were conversing in the servants' hall. Phyllis came in with an armful of clothes that the inspector and I took off her. While I simply put them neatly on the table, he practically froze and stared at a coat of her Ladyship's.  
“Who made this?”, he asked breathlessly.  
“The seamstress in Ripon, same as usual”, Phyllis answered.  
“Has it been altered, mended?”, he continued, feverishly running his fingers along the seams.  
“She tore it on a branch while walking some time ago, yes”  
“Who did it?”, he insisted and it was one of those moments when he seems almost mad.  
“May does all of our mending. And by hand, too, although I offered her my sewing-machine. I think she enjoys it, it calms her down”  
Nightingale dropped the garments on the table unceremoniously. He had already turned on his heel, then turned back to give Phyllis a quite ungentlemanly kiss. “You just solved this case, Miss Baxter. I'll forever be grateful”  
He dashed off and I followed him without thinking much, as I have done these past few weeks. We found May just closing the door of her room in the attics.  
“Stop right there!”, Nightingale yelled and held out his right hand in a defensive gesture.  
She looked shocked for a moment, then her face turned into something more vile and contemptuous than any nineteen-year-old should be capable of and a black cloud gathered around her. “You figured it out then”, she snarled.  
“Of course I did. Who do you think you're dealing with?”, he answered in a way I understood but did not think wise, “Where did you learn to do such magic?”  
“It was passed down through the generations, from mother to daughter, from Mary Bateman all the way to me”  
“You killed Enid. She was your friend, wasn't she?”, I said, though I still don't know why.  
“She wasn't my friend” The ice in May's voice reminded me of myself in my worst times; then something softened in her manner. “I never wanted anyone to get hurt”  
“What did you want?”, Nightingale asked, all sympathy and mercy.  
She looked like a different person suddenly, her old self I thought I knew well enough. “I just wanted someone to talk to, some company. What's wrong about that?”  
“Nothing, my dear. But you chose the wrong way to do it … Who were those people you summoned?”, the inspector continued cautiously.  
“My parents. And … it was fine. My father played some pranks, it was all harmless … Then suddenly they turned into that … that thing and then Enid died and … I couldn't get it to stop anymore” Her voice wavered, she seemed in a desperate need to explain.  
“Why didn't you come to me and ask for my help after it got out of control?”  
“Help? Why would I expect help from a stranger? It's never done me any good in my life … Besides, I did not really want it to stop, just to quit being violent”  
“How about you stop it now, before anyone else gets hurt” Nightingale took a step towards her but the black cloud darkened.  
“Stay away! You're not taking them!” I could feel it then, the cold torrential rain, loneliness that cut to the bone and a girl abandoned in a nightmare. There was an ambiguity, too, like she was torn between the world of the living and the shadows of death.  
“I won't hurt you … Tell me about them. What happened to your parents?”, Nightingale said. I was sure he had some sort of agenda but could not share it with me.  
“My father was a fisherman. He drowned in a big storm just after he had gone back to work, after the war. We scrambled on, doing laundry and such, until my mother died three years ago. My sister and brother moved away but there was no space for me in their world. They just left me there! In those rooms under the railway-bridge where no light ever shone and the very walls dripped with misery. How could they do such a thing? Ma and Pa would never have left me alone by choice” She waved her hands as she talked and moved from one foot to the other, trying to hold on to the last bit of her composure.  
“I'm very sorry this happened to you. But we can work it out together, you don't need to hurt people anymore” Nightingale was out of his depth, that much became clear to me then. He had been ready for monsters and creatures of the night but not deranged young orphaned women.  
“You don't understand!”, May yelled, “I can't stop it now. It's too strong” The black cloud had been growing and towered above her now, filling the hallway and brushing one of the lamps that still housed a burst light-bulb. She retreated into the dark, no, she was pulled, like a puppet on a string.  
“Let the girl go”, was the last thing I heard Nightingale say before the darkness overwhelmed me in a loud bang. Fragments of the world seemed to fly around me, swirling like a ship in a storm, pulling out drawers in my head filled with all the bad memories and emptying them on one big pile until I felt like I drowned in them and finally lost my senses. 

I woke up very slowly, on my side and with my knees drawn almost to my chest. In fact, I still don't feel like I have woken up entirely. Everything seems slow and dull. I wasn't alone when I came to; a hand was stroking my hair and I could sense a warm human presence sitting on the edge of my bed. For a while, I thought it might be Nightingale but I gradually came to realise it was a woman. I felt thoroughly protected and filled with that sort of cosy warmth you get when you drink hot Christmas wine. Afraid to burst the bubble, I did not want to open my eyes.  
“Thomas? Are you awake, love?” It was Phyllis. Who else would it be?   
I couldn't pretend anymore, so I blinked against the soft candle-light. Her hand rested between my shoulder-blades, drawing me back into more or less full consciousness. “Where am I? What happened?” It came back to me then, the blast almost like a shell exploding nearby, blinding and numbing me.  
“I'm not sure I'm the right person to answer the second question. But you are in the attics, in one of the bigger shared bedrooms. We found it easier to put all of you in one room”, Phyllis explained and I knew then why the surroundings seemed strange and familiar at the same time.  
“All of us?”, I asked quite confusedly.  
“You, May and Inspector Nightingale were all affected by it. Of course he's been up on his feet for hours although I don't think he should be”  
Something on the other bed caught my eye then. Sybbie, clutching her old toy-rabbit, and George, both fast asleep propped up against a heap of cushions and against each other. Phyllis knew what I was going to ask just by the way I looked at her. It must have been a pretty terrified look because I thought in that moment that the children had been caught in it.  
“They both refused to leave you until they could be sure you were alright … You stay in bed now, I'll get you some tea and something to eat” She left, exchanging words with someone outside the door.  
I could only move very slowly, I struggled to sit up and reach the water next to my bed which I drank with such shaking hands I almost dropped it. I looked around the room illuminated with more candles than strictly necessary and saw May on the other bed. If she was alive or dead I could not tell in that moment but she looked so peaceful, more peaceful than I have ever seen her. There was plaster-dust all over the sleeves of her dress, as was on my jacket that hung across a chair, which puzzled me at the time.   
Phyllis returned with my tea and sandwiches and with her came Miss Williams to collect the children. They stayed for a few more minutes which did wonders for my spirits and just as I had finished eating, Nightingale came in, looking tired but a bit more cheerful than he has been lately.  
After asking each other how we were and both lying that we were fine, he dropped onto the empty bed with a sigh. “I have sent a wire to the Folly, a doctor will come up as soon as possible and check you over, but I think you'll be quite alright”  
“And what about her?” May had not moved nor even blinked all this time. I could see that she was breathing but that was it.  
Nightingale's face darkened. “He will take her to London and look after her there. But I don't think she will ever wake up again”  
This caused me greater pain than I had anticipated. “She was a nice girl, you know. Much nicer than most people realised. It's a shame; she had her whole life before her … Did you get any more information out of her before she …?”  
“Not really. I got a few impressions when all the magic was released and it came down to loneliness, being abandoned and a fair amount of jealousy for all the people who seemed to cope so much better with life. Jealousy seems to be the reason she projected so much onto Miss Taylor and the entity eventually killed her, of all people. They both fancied Mr. McNeil and when it looked like he preferred Miss Taylor, she went berserk”  
“That's where secrets get you”, I mumbled without thinking and upon his inquiry what I meant by that, I told him what the whole household has known for weeks: “Lewis McNeil preferred neither of them. He has been seeing a lot of Miss Williams lately. But of course no-one was supposed to know that … Which, I guess, in the end was lucky for her”  
“I guess it was and she must be good at keeping secrets … Then again, aren't we all” He looked at me in that mysterious way and said nothing more although there was no-one else in the room.  
“So, does this mean you will be leaving soon?”, I asked to change the subject.  
“As soon as everything is settled. I'll go back to London first, then return to India shortly”  
“Let's try not to lose touch, yes?” I was a little insecure saying something like that but the truth is I do not want to lose him entirely. He is a kind and loyal young man, although lost and hurt at the moment, and we only have each other to talk completely openly about everything that happened here. Also, his stories about the world and all the magic in it promise to be delightful.  
He seemed surprisingly touched by my request. “We won't lose contact. Though it might be a bit slow between here and Bombay. Alright, I have to get started on my final report, my governor wants it on his desk before Christmas”  
I have to admit, in between everything, I had almost forgotten about the holidays. It will be quite a gloomy Christmas with the aftermath of that murder and everyone recovering from the last few weeks. And it would not surprise me in general if it were the last Christmas that the Crawleys, and by extension the whole household, spend at Downton. There has been the odd worrying conversation in the library lately. Also, for me, it will be twice as gloomy because I did not get to see Richard as we had planned and probably won't have the time to before some weeks in the new year have passed.  
While I was threatening to sink into my self-pity, a new visitor entered the room. Mrs. Hughes seems to have aged quite a bit over the course of this whole haunting. I tried to get up as I am supposed to do, but before I could test if my legs would carry me, she told me to stay put with a kindly smile.  
“How are you feeling?”, she asked and I felt it was time for the truth.  
“Pretty stupid, to be honest, running into danger like that … And how are you and the rest of the household holding up?”  
“We're all fine, getting back into the swing of things. All apart from this poor soul”  
We looked at the girl lying lifeless but still alive in her bed, a curious charm consisting of strings, seashells and buttons coiled up like a snake on the pillow next to her head. Nightingale had found it in her room and put it there, hoping its presence would bring May comfort.  
“I failed her”, Mrs. Hughes said and there were tears in her eyes. I admit, it broke my heart and when she looked straight at me, I couldn't even hide that fact. “Like I failed you, all those years ago”, she said.  
“No, don't think like that. I failed myself, so did May. You reached out to her so often. What else could you have done?”  
That is what I said but I actually feel like I failed her. As much as I am trying to be a better person, doing something about it when I saw May ruining her live by pushing people away was beyond me. In the moments before the “explosion” I had felt something I recognised from a few years ago: She was unable to live with herself and the things she had done, could not imagine how anything could ever be put right again. I believe she could have surrendered to Nightingale and he could easily have stopped the enchantment or whatever it was, but she was so beyond hope, the only solution she saw was to let him attack her and thus commit suicide. I wonder how he lives with events like these …   
The last few weeks have taught me a few things, too. I may be capable of organising and keeping a calm head during chaos but leading people emotionally will never be my strong side. I shall leave that to others and stick to the stuff I am actually good at. From the look of things, I might have to rely on that a fair bit more in the future. Now that it has turned night and I have had some time to think about it, I conclude that that is a good thing. For now, I shall sleep, get up tomorrow and carry on as before. But there is a new year – a new decade even – coming towards us. There is a future there for me, for all of us, however it might turn out, and I am not letting it slip away like I have done so many times.  
The candles have burned down save the one next to my bed. I hear May's even breathing and as much as it still haunts me what has happened to her, it seems like she will find some peace at last. Good night.


	22. Excerpt from Thomas Nightingale's inofficial journal, hidden in a book

December 23, 1929

All my reports are finished, the damage assessed where the attic corridor caved in and I am sitting on a train back to London, most of the inhabitants of Downton happy to finally see the back of me, especially after I had suggested that young George Crawley attend Casterbrook to become a top-class practitioner. They were putting up the Christmas-tree just as I was leaving and I wonder what they will make of this year's festivities.  
These past few weeks have changed a few things about how I see myself and my place in the world. I thought I'd spend my life happily moving from one colonial posting to the next, wreaking havoc among the demi-monde of, say, Australia or the Bahamas until goblin revenge ensued and I died or retired. Now, suddenly, I see myself settling back down in England, maybe becoming a proper police-detective after all like I'd always dreamed. It might be my stubborn streak pushing me to improve on something I have just found myself not good at or it might be my real wish again after trying something else for a few years. But right now, it is what I want and I shall resign from colonial duty after my next term in Bombay and consign my services to Inspector Murville and the Metropolitan Police. If I change my mind later, I can always apply for a foreign posting again, hopefully with a new set of skills.  
I have also made the resolution to spend Christmas with my family after all. In general, I will keep a closer relationship with them in the future, see all my nieces and nephews grow up into people I know, not into distant strangers. There is a life outside the Folly and I intend to live it, not end up like poor May Edison with nothing but work and co-workers, fading away with her ghosts in a lonely attic-chamber or like Thomas used to live, from what I have gathered, behind a thick wall of distrust and defences.  
Speaking of Thomas, he is one of the few members of the household who actually grew kind of fond of me (the others being Miss Sybil, Mr. McNeil and possibly Mrs. Hughes and Miss Baxter at least a little) and we have each found a friend and a confidante in the other, different as we may be. He drove me to the station because he had half an hour's time on his hands and could not miss this chance to say goodbye. A shame we could never really talk during the drive because he is not a very steady driver and needs all his concentration for it. And all we could do when we arrived, because the train was already pulling in, was hold hands and exchange a few emotionally charged looks in our last seconds of security in the car. Something immensely hopeful happened then:  
Among the people that got off the train, Thomas spotted one that made him freeze into a pillar of salt first, then abandon me where I stood. I know I should not have followed him and I definitely should not have listened to their conversation but I couldn't help myself. They were talking silently but I have very sharp ears.  
“You didn't get my letter, then?”, the stranger said.  
“I told you, we were under quarantine. It must be in the pile of mail no-one has opened, yet”, Thomas explained and he looked like he had a hard time deciding what to do with his hands, always wanting to touch the other man but stopping himself midway, “What are you doing here?”  
“I moved back to York yesterday” It occurred to me then who he must be – Richard, the mysterious London boyfriend, handsome and with an aura of casually challenging the world.  
“What? Are you telling me you gave up your job?” Thomas sounded absolutely horrified which only made me more curious.  
“I was trying to get away for a day and come here because I worried about you. Then Mr. Wilson found one of your letters, he threatened to expose us if I didn't resign. So I did and now I'm sheltering with my parents” Richard shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  
“But what are you going to do?” True to himself, Thomas worried about the next step already.  
“Go in with my father and brother. I'm a rubbish tailor but I've been studying business and I think I can be helpful”  
“You just take the world in your stride, don't you?”, Thomas said, so much affection in his voice it actually made me feel warm, too, although it was directed at another man.  
And Richard looked at him like the rest of the scene had faded out completely. “Is there any other way to take it?”  
I actually considered breaking them out of their enchantment for safety-reasons, although it did seem cruel, when a loud noise from the other end of the platform did that for me. Thomas remembered me and formally introduced me to Mr. Ellis before he extended his hand for our final farewell. “Don't give up”, he said and I don't intend to. If I could have stayed there with them, basking in their light like a sparrow in the first sun of spring, I would have, but the train-doors were being closed and I really could not afford to miss this one. Still it gave me hope to see how they have found each other in this often cold and confusing world and could not stop smiling in each other's presence. There may be ghosts, darkness and evil on this earth, but as long as there is light also, nothing is lost.  
And Merry Christmas to all, I thought as I watched the two men on the platform disappear in the smoke. Merry Christmas, even to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, it's finished! I am working on a little sequel, but that might take a few days.  
Thank you everyone for reading, for comments and kudos :)  
Merry Christmas!


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